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Charlotte Williams, 08 May '13

I could write an essay detailing your flaws in eloquent sentences tinged with the burning frustration you persistently instil in me. I could write an essay on your flaws because I swear they are endless. I could write about how when you drink too much, you get raucous and mean; how when the poison circulates under your skin, you become a different person; a terrifying, brave, reckless individual who I would have sprinted a hundred miles from this time last year.

I could write about how you place death between your lips and blow small circles of smoke in my face when I remind you that this cigarette could be the one that will kill you. I can describe every crinkle you make at your eyes, at the corner of your lips when you laugh at me at my reaction and even when I’m furious, I still love you furiously.

I could write about how you create teasing nicknames because of the years that separate us in age, to provoke me, like ‘kid’ and ‘school-girl’ though the years are only short and few but you keep them in your arsenal to use to prove your truth, though it proves nothing in my eyes.

I could write about your petulant nature and your egotistical disposition; about the way that even if you are wrong and it’s clear enough to be practically seen from a mile in distance, you will die screaming that you are right. Worse, I could write about how you purposefully claim the opposite opinion to my own simply to watch flaming irritation dance in my eyes for your own amusement, much of the time, resulting in a deafening silence for days and days on end where the absence of your infuriating voice crucifies me.

But then again, I could write about how you complete me.

I will write about my favourite time with you; that time between sleep and conscious where you are emotionally naked and vulnerable for this small gap – complex and twisted, I revolve in your gravity always but more so at this time than ever. It’s the way you look at me, with your exhausted navy eyes; the way you examine my every detail because I’m the last thing you choose to truly see before you desert the day and fall into unconsciousness. It’s the way that even in your deepest slumber you cling to me and murmur my name and snuggle into the crook of my neck for comfort.

I will write about how you wake me up every morning with steaming hot tea and that half-grin that devolves my mind to mush; I can’t think of a better way to open my bleary eyes than to you. I will write about all those nights where we stay awake until three am, throwing back cheap beer in coffee mugs, dancing to old music that you played from your archaic record player and talking about pointless, important, philosophical things that we will soon forget until our voices croak and break. I will write about how you stayed up all night with me to revise with me for a subject you don’t even study. I will write about how you kissed ever scar I ever made and promised me yourself. I will write about you in your entirety and I will leave nothing out because I swear I love every part of you.

If I could find a way to wipe every blemish from your mind, to carefully rip your shrivelled, scarred, spiteful heart from your chest and replace it with a clean, pure new one, I would not, because it is also beautiful, kind and irreplaceable. If your heart were to shatter into a thousand tiny pieces, I would not fix you up a new heart and present it to you as if you should be grateful, I would fall to my knees and put every piece back together with duct tape and superglue if I had to, because I don’t want you to be perfect and you aren’t, but lord, you are perfect for me.