Sometimes, I wonder if you know how much it’s killing me when you’re like this. Part of me wants to believe that you’d stop, if you knew, because the last thing you’d ever let yourself do is hurt me. But then there’s that tiny sliver of logic that whispers hauntingly in my ear, murmuring little truths that leave me breathless and nearly shaking with fear. Are you doing this on purpose? God, I hope not. I pray not. Please, don’t. But I think you are.

I think you like knowing you’ve got control over me, that you’re holding the winning hand as far as this convoluted poker game of the heart is concerned. Because that’s all this is to you, a game. You don’t know how much more it is to me and I’m afraid to tell you. If I were to let it slip that I’m falling in love with you, bit by agonizing bit, then you’d have an ace to add to your collection and I’d be left with two pair, if I’m lucky. And we both know I’m not.

You look so angelic right now, so heaven sent. Like you’re a porcelain doll with delicate hands and translucent skin and gossamer hair that is as soft as a blanket of cobwebs would be, if there were such a thing. Though you’re sleeping now, I can still see your eyes inside my head, two shards of rough jade, with threads of gold glossing over their surface. Even when the real you is hidden beneath a layer of alcohol and angeldust, all I have to do is dredge up the mere memory of your eyes and everything that you’ve ever done to hurt me is washed to the wayside and forgiven. It’s so easy, loving you.

Except when you’re like this, Jekyll and Hyde incarnate. In the morning, I know you won’t remember any of what happened tonight and you’ll cuddle up to my side, kissing me awake like you always do, but I’ll remember because the aches and pains won’t let me forget.

Forgiven, not forgotten.