You. You remind me of times less complicated, less complex, less earth-shattering. You. Your sweetened cheeks crack even the most stubborn with calloused hands massaging weariness from cobalts and jades and honeys that's seen and wept a little too much. You. Your flaws band around your temples and chest like some kind of breath restricting bind, at times pulling you under when you least expect it. It's similar to how your hands, large as they can be, wrap tightly around my wrists in a finicky of a blur of emotions running too quick that melts into lava-like anger, which causes you to say things you don't mean. Which causes your tongue to sing tunes that turns you into a monster. You. You are not a beast. You're not pushing and pulling my guts apart, one by one, the way he's chewed pieces of my soul and attempted to tape it all back together. How precious can a man hold a heart when he barely squeeze his own? You. Bitter as a cigarette, painful as a bee sting. You. — YOUR SOUL IS NIRVANA, HEART LIKE QUEEN.