Was

He was the kind of love that pulls you apart from the inside.

Feral and ravaging.

Crashing and teeming.

Skin ripping from the pressure building.

He was my fingers dug into my palms to form crescent, blood moons.

He was my breath too heavy to catch.

My bones splintering from the weight of my blood rushing.

He was my eyes closed tight and my head tipped back and my chest full of melancholy and ache.

He was the kind of love that is breaking.

A war determined to eat me from my body.

Myself, torn in shreds.

He was my tongue wetting my lips and my skin warmed and aching.

The creep of longing that tumbled across my neck and back.

The bruises smarting against whispered touches.

He was the light that breaks through when you come out of the shadows.

He was the darkness that pulled me in deeper.

He was a frenetic up and down, drain circling, tantrum.

He was the angst that I craved.

He was words pouring out of me all at once.

And he was the throbbing in my hysteric heart.

The pulsing torment that’s deconstructed my being.

And the insomnia that continues to keep my eyes tired and my mouth starving.

My destroyed.

My raw.

My devoured.

My tormented.

My gritty.

My careening.

My burnt.

My blistered.

My wrecked.

My fiery.

My raging.

My tortured.

My drowned.

My lonely, deadly, can’t hold it together.

My never ending.

Ending.