These aren’t the sort of love songs you’d expect,
With melodies that both thunder and caress,
And words that twist with grace and wrenching heartache.
They’re horrible,
And yet they’re beautiful, uncommon, romantic.
They hold you and destroy you, disgust and entertain you,
Leaving you a shadow in their endless contrast.

He’s not the sort of lover you’d expect,
A mess of self-consciousness and intricate tattoos,
Flawed for reasons you only barely understand.
He doesn’t share.
But still he holds you closer
With hands you know better than your own,
Surrounds you ‘til you both smell of mint and cigarettes,
And murmurs promises you know he’ll never keep.

It’s not the sort of grieving you’d expect.
You share a cup of coffee at the kitchen table
At six a.m.; no one’s slept in hours.
The phone’s been ringing,
But no one has bothered to answer it.
You watch as he plays his guitar to himself,
And wonder briefly if the music’s all he’s ever really loved.

These aren’t the sort of memories you’d expect.
 
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