Vagabonds

He was an enigma; I was an open book. He wouldn't let me in; I couldn't keep him out. Regardless, we loved each other with all that we were able to. We were dysfunctional, and we were fine with that. It was all about the little things – the hand-holding, the crooked smiles, the Sunday afternoon History channel marathons, and the words. Oh, the words were the best part. He had always been a master of words, leaving me clay in his hands; he could mold me however he wanted with but a few simple sentences. He had his words; I had my photos. We fought like Hell, but we loved like wildfire, like the ocean, like two people who knew what was right before them but were too stubborn or afraid to really see exactly what they had together.

"How can you be so open with everything and everyone?" he would ask. I would smile widely; it was all the answer he would ever receive, all that he ever needed. He would nod his understanding, but he would ask again – he always did.

"How can you be so closed off from the world?" I would question. He would stare at me with those fluent cobalt eyes, unblinking – all the answer I would ever get from him. How could eyes be so guarded and yet so piercing all the same?

We spent many nights together, just as we spent many nights apart. We spent our days basking in the sunlight, lying in the lush grass of the backyard, smiling and laughing. We were the most normal when the sun was out, but we were happiest when it went to bed for the night and the moon took its place, watching over us, protecting us from ourselves. Our love was more alive than ever from twilight until dawn.

We were backwards; not to say we didn't know how things were meant to be, we just didn't care. Our love was built upon the stones of every dream of the vagabonds of society, the untouchables. We did not strive for normalcy; we strived for ourselves. It worked for us, and it still does.