I fell in love with the acoustics of his voice.
Ever word he ever spoke sunk into my skin and our conversations became my favorite songs. I wish I could play them over and over again; I etched them into my bones so I could feel him in all the movements I would ever make.
He was my favorite fairytale and I was staying up late reading, trying to get closer and closer to the happy ever after.
I had failed to realize that he was doing the same. He turned my pages every chance he got. Reading me cover to cover, not just the interesting chapters in between, but he read all the ripped up, coffee stained, ink smeared pages in between.
Tattoos covered his feet, quoting me and all the poetic garbage I ever told him. He carried a piece of me where he would go; he was a piece of me that I would never let go.