My love serenaded me with the strum of his guitar and the acoustics of his voice in darkest of hours.
He entered my fist-filled night terrors, through the portal of wretched glossolalia, and unhinged the shackles with his unclenched, temperate hands.
My darling prepared daily feasts for me, as sustenance to coat my withering bones, despite my diffident appetite.
He lifted my listless and weak infection-ridden body, from the sofa to his bed, and did so whilst keeping me in the fetal position mold he found me in.
My dear made me ever more God conscious as time reeled forward notwithstanding his lack of faith and quasi-agnosticism.
He imitated my morning squeals, scissoring me closely, as I would react adversely to his pre-toothpaste kisses.
My love invited me to speak in an unadulterated fashion, with no shame, as I gushed about the curve of a woman’s body and the chiseled form of a man’s jaw.
He whispered sweet nothings about his present sense impression of my doe eyes and his affinity for my adverse possession of his sweaters and summer tanks.
My darling wrestled with me in attempts to quench my insatiable appetite, as his fangs and claws would come close to severing my neck.
He appeased my many carnal desires, giving me an endorphin filled rush, by bringing me to the cusp of life and death every time he locked me in inescapable chokeholds.
My dear spoke of forever and a day but fretted about the temporary, quickly decomposing bone that was tossed our way and left for us to squander.
He made the impeccable mistake of dealing himself a poor hand of cards, leaving me to read them as the trembling bearer of bad news.