I knew I was in love when I first put a pen to paper and the only thing I could write about was you. I peeled back the paper and there you were, welcoming me with open arms. I read this book, but all I can dream about is you. I drive my car and all I can think about is you in the passenger seat.
     I take a baby blue, one of my lovely little Oxys, and swallow it. Perhaps this will get my mind off of you. My band, they don't know about the lyrics. They don't know about the sleepless nights where I force my eyelids open in order to not dream about you. Why do you haunt my dreams? Can I not even escape you in my slumber? I guess not.
     Summer of 2005. We met at a My Chemical Romance concert. Your hair was dyed a dark shade of pink. You were wearing those little black shorts and that ripped tank top that showed off toned, wet skin from the stage lights. Your eyeliner was running due to the sweat that was glistening upon your brow.
     "Should've chosen waterproof, huh?" I joked as I found a spot to watch the show from. You turned your head, your bracelets on those skinny little wrists of yours jingling.
     "What?" You responded quickly, ready to pounce at any insult. I smiled. Getting defensive already.
     "Your eyeliner," I pointed to my eye and looked into yours. The bold line across your eyelids showed off those beautiful eyes of yours. A mixture of the deepest blue with a hint of a light green. The color of the ocean, the color of my love for you.
     "Oh, yeah," You laughed as you realized your makeup was beginning to unravel.
     We joked around after that. I introduced myself, as you did the same. You got more and more attractive as we talked. That happens, you know. Finding a person and once you get to know them, they become the most gorgeous person on this planet of ours. This was how I felt about you.
     We became the definition of Love. I gave you my heart. I was a puppy and you were my master. With every tug of the leash, I followed you happily. I was yours, in every way possible. And soon, you were mine. We were in Love. We were the roses left at lovers' doors. We were the lace on her dress. We were the cologne on his neck. We were the lipstick on the mister's collar. We were one.
     God, I fell so deep. I spent every waking moment with you or wishing to be with you. The cocaine helped, of course. They say cocaine has the chemical that love has. If we cannot truly have love, we have it chemically inserted into our minds. Then, there are he few of us who can have both. That was you and me.
     After you started college and I got a reasonable job, I managed to save up enough money to buy us a little apartment in the middle of the city. You said yes and it was like we were sixteen again, loving each other like we were the last two people in the universe. I loved our bedroom most of all. It was painted a blue, just like the color of your eyes, with matching blue and white sheets. When you weren't at school, you were with me. We were alone together, you, me, and our white powder.
     February 7th, 2007. The best day of my life. I was lounging in the living room we had. If you could call it that. All there was was a two seat couch and a TV with a crappy signal. It was small and cramped, but it was better than nothing. You were in the kitchen, heating up Chinese leftovers, when I hear you state, 'I'm going to the bathroom.' I chuckled and brushed it off.
     About ten minutes later, you plop onto the seat next to me, wearing baggy sweatpants and your hair tied up in a bun. You lay your head on my shoulder as you wrap your arm around me. You held up something I had to lean in to see.
     "Y-you're..." I stammered.
     'Pregnant?" You replied, beaming. "Why yes, yes I am."
      We didn't care you were still a Sophomore in college. We didn't care we barely had enough money to support two people, let alone two people and a baby. We were just happy. The real kind of happy. The kind of happy where you knew that someday, you were going to tell your grandkids about. The greatest moment of my life.
     I set up a jar the next day where we would throw in leftover coins to save up for a crib. It seemed like we only talked about the baby, including names. If it was a boy, I wanted Patrick and you wanted Andrew. If it was a girl, I wanted Elizabeth and you wanted Ashley. We laughed it off, but I secretly couldn't wait to meet my little Patrick or Elizabeth. When you lay asleep, I quietly put a hand to your stomach, knowing there was a mixture of us in there. I always fell asleep happily.
     A few weeks later, I woke up to a scream. I quickly shot up and looked at you. Your eyes were full of raw fear. I choked back a sob as you pulled back your sheets and showed the blood on your thighs. You screamed and sobbed as you clawed at the cloth, as if trying to scratch away the blood. It was the saddest I'd ever been at that point.
     We lost that little baby of ours. It was a girl. A little girl. My baby girl. It's not uncommon for young, first time mothers to lose the baby, the doctor explained. His statistics didn't mean anything. It didn't help our Ashley became just another number on the chart of miscarriages.
     You never looked at me the same. We became silent. Our bed remained cold. You skipped school and would lay around, your eyes dead, your breathing slow. I tried to help. If I ever did anything worth while, it was help. I brought you to a therapy session. I got whatever you asked for. Even the powder. But it wasn't enough. No, it wasn't enough.
     A month after the death of our baby, I came home from work to find the door unlocked. Strange, I remember thinking. You never left the door open. All was silent as I walked into the kitchen and set my coat on the table. The TV was shut off. None of the lights were on except the bedroom. Fear shook through me. I don't know what I was afraid of, but I knew I had a good reason to be. I crept cautiously towards our bedroom and pulled the door open, slowly.
     "Oh, God,"  I cried as I crumbled to my knees. "No, no, no."
Your eyes were open. Those beautiful eyes I loved. Your hair floated around the crown of your head like a halo. Tears poured out of my eyes as I saw the white dust on your nostrils and the blood dripping out. I sobbed and sobbed as I cradled your body to my chest. This is a dream. Of course this is a dream, you're not really dead, you didn't really overdose. Maybe if I close my eyes tight enough I'll wake up and you'll be wrapped around me as you always are when I get up for work.
     But this isn't a dream. Life isn't a dream. And I thank God that you were not a dream. You were the best worst thing that has ever happened to me. I didn't go to your funeral. I couldn't bear to see the dead mother of my dead child. Not now, not until I'm dead up there with them. Or wherever it is you go when you die.
     I haven't gone to work in weeks. I haven't changed the bed sheets. I still keep that sweet smelling perfume you used to wear. I can still smell it on your little black ripped tank top. I remember running my hands through that golden hair of yours, sometimes dyed pink, sometimes dyed black.
     The bed is vacant. The crib I eventually bought in memory of our little one sits still. Never been used. Never will be used. Your clothes are still neatly folded in the dresser. The one thing I miss most of all is your laughter that used to echo throughout the halls and I would roar with laughter with you.
     Now I sit here, on this dirty two-seat couch in silence.