The way he cradled you at night: that’s why you kept going back. His hands on your waist his chest against your back. His pulse throbbing with yours. Pressing his lips against your neck murmuring your name.

The way he sat in the sunlight: that’s why you went in the first place. Chewing gum with lips like a porn star and his ribs stabbing from inside his flesh. Skinny legs all clothed in red and platform shoes, crossed. Cigarette dangling from his hands, his beautiful hands, that’s why you went to him, because his fingers were elegant and and his nails were painted black.

The way he lied: that’s why you tried to leave him. His smile so arrogant and his hair gelled. Well you’re being so ridiculous he’d say ever so fucking patient. You’d ball your hands into fists and fantasize about bruises blooming on his perfect skinny face.

His voice: that’s what made you jealous. Soaring and taking over harmonies and forcing you to your knees with its beauty. You didn’t have that kind of power and you knew it. Your voice was warm and smooth but it didn’t lift like an acid angel. It didn’t bring tears to anyone’s eyes and it didn’t tear gashes in the sky.

His eyes: that’s what made you laugh. They crinkled in the corners when he told a joke. When he was tired they’d flutter like a forties girl. Leaning his head on your shoulder breathing against your collarbone oh don’t laugh at me he’d beg. Batting his eyes his liquid jewel eyes at you.

His smile: that’s how he healed you. Creeping across one side of his face first. Quirky and wide and sweet. Reminding you of the innocent he used to be before everything. You’d try so hard to get him to smile and sometimes he’d only you give you that tense media smile that meant he wasn’t really thinking of you. But he saved his real smile for you. Or at least you liked to think he did.

His suicide: that’s how he broke you.

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