Unbroken

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his followers, the Elvi, or dirty poetry.
Painting his visions on sheets that hang from the eaves or painting me with
psychedelic designs. It doesn't matter which. All of it makes me want him
more.

Some things I say to him are like sour notes played too often. I'm out
of tune. He always sings along. Our waltz is better than most, I suppose. We
know the steps by heart. The world moves quickly around us and our quiet
drunken pace, but we don't care. Our minds move quickly despite this world's
petty distractions. It's us and them, and we're the only two sane people left.

He makes me nervous, still. His dreams are bigger than both of us.
When we speak the words fall from my lips. They aren't enough to explain who I
want to be. I am so flawed. He says, "Sometimes people have imperfections
that are worth living with. You're a little eccentric. It's part of your
charm." This man knows me, and loves me anyway. He is crazier than I am.

Eight years might as well be a ...

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