his eyes light up in seven different colors
all the freckles of his face stark and alive
and he waves
with a calloused hand that has written love letters,
kisses with lips
that have kissed other girls.

he carries in his pocket
a mystery of sorts
along with these things he will never live without:
one lighter, a box of death
and scraps of paper
littered with scribbles
and a natural cologne.

he comes with smiles,
the smell of smoke
and warmth no fire could hope to have,
and brings
a mind i will never understand
a laugh that turns me inside out
and the most important thing -

i hit him with weak fists
and breathe in an asthmatic unsightly way
and refuse to kiss him until he cuddles me
and then hardly kiss him anyway.

we have settled
into an odd routine:
yelling and fighting
then loving and righting,
and most of the time i think i hate him
but then he smiles
and i forget.