blood stained lips.

His hair was just growing when we met. It had just settle below his eyes, the light ginger colour made his skin look paler than I can ever remember. He sat at the side of me, drinking sickeningly brightly coloured alcopops, watching zombie films.
I will not ever forget how polite he was. How he smiled at me, making me blush and want to run away, escape from Dave's arms.
Two and half years later, I still want him to steal me away from this mess. He made me feel like not even a meteorite could destroy my confidence, I felt safe when I was locked in his arms. He understood that when I cried, I needed to be held tightly, and told everything would be okay. I miss him. I miss his touch. I miss his voice against the little hairs on my neck, making them tremble with pleasure and delight.
Every night when I was on my back in another bed, I wished he was there. I wished we hadn't argued and that he would tell me he still loved me with all his heart. I wished that my own self pity hadn't driven me to desperatly seeking approval.
As I sit in my own sess pit, I can't help but want him with me. I want us to have the future we imagined, being together forever, children, growing old together, laying enxt to each other as we draw our last breaths.
It doesn't matter what love I ever discover in the rest of my long, drawn-out life, no one will ever compare to him. Not when I know he held me as I sobbed, his t shirt soaked with my tears of anger and desperation, as I cried onto his shoulder for two hours in the middle of a cold, dark, damp, smog ridden street.
No matter who I meet, or where I go, no one will ever compare to him. I still love him with all my heart, and now as I suck on my death sticks, and glug down the ruby red Merlot, I know I will never have him back and I am fully aware, my self loathing and self pity and self destructive sides ar entirely happy with this shit state of affairs.