You love her so, the thoughts tumble in and out, You love her in every state of your mind.
It's in the green button up shirt she's taken ownership of, one you never wore because it was so rough against your skin. You wanted only smooth fabrics in this land, never ones that would itch or scratch or cause indents in your skin only unmarred with wounds on the surface. But on her it softens in its contours and fits those of her waist.
It is her eyes so glazed on a warm Saturday morning until she's had her cup of coffee. You don't see those eyes as she wraps her arms around your waist and you lean in, and this is what you always wanted. You don't deserve it, but you're traitorously human and you want it anyway. Her warm lips on your neck. The vibrations of her voice saying Good morning. Her hands massaging your stomach. And perhaps the damned turn of fate was kind to you this time instead of mercilessly cruel. Perhaps every happiness handed to you now won't be ripped away like a bandaid while the wound was still bleeding beneath it.
She is oil, and you are vinegar, and she is holding your sadness together. As old as that metaphor is. Holding you in place, not letting one droplet out of her grasp. But you don't feel trapped, not in the slightest. Because at the same time you are the oil to her vinegar, and you hold each other in place. And you clash, you clash over and over again. You'll never not clash. The oil touches the vinegar, holds it, never mixes. There will be parts you don't understand, but you will make an effort to try. Because you love her so, and it snuck up on you while you were drowning in despair, lashing out, trapped within your own mind and your own mind's vengeances.
At night she holds you. She whispers those sweet nothings in your ear. Says lovely things you still cannot hear. Chases away those demons that claw at you, draw you closer and closer. They wear your mother's eyes, her lilting voice. She'll always be creeping on the edge of your nightmares.
So much was your fault. And when you finally let regret and guilt pour in, after years of keeping it out, having no use for it's baggage, you feel felt yourself falling, watching out of windows, wondering if anyone may just forgive you enough to let you try again when you've used up so many chances. You're strong, so strong, strong enough to destroy the world, or curse it away into your own fabled happy ending as you did. But there's a part of you that's weak, yes, it's a grown weakness. And it's not love. Or maybe it is. But it doesn't matter in her arms, because her love is what's keeping you standing. What gives you the strength to go to the grocery store and snap at the cashier and grin at your enemies as manic as you were.
Because in her arms you know, that night, you'll find your safety, your home, your sanctuary, your true happy ending, or any of those synonyms and phrases. And you don't deserve it.
Some nights she'll lie in your arms too, saying how she'll never be good enough. Isn't worth enough all the trouble. How she still feels used, even as she loves her parents, and should hate you but doesn't. You hold her tighter, and chase away her confusion with kisses. Sometimes tender, sometimes vigorous and biting. You hope to be of more help to her someday.
But you are vinegar, and she is oil. You are oil, and she is vinegar. Two parts, the same.
And you love her so.