I’m dependent. If my mornings start without you, the day always takes a turn for crappy around mid-morning. So I seek you out, and we sit in perfect silence: I hold onto you for salvation’s sake, and you warm my hands and sit there, smelling pretty. And if I want to do anything productive after 3 p.m. (which I do. I always do.), I go and find you in some cozy hole-in-the-wall, and we’ll sit across the table from one another, just staring at first (the heat is almost too much to bear), and then you fill me with your not-quite-sweet nothings that make my breaths a little deeper, my eyes a little brighter.
Of all my vices, I love you most. No one seems to notice that you’re no good for me because no one would ever love something so deeply if it were doing her harm, but I’m not so naïve to think you’re not the reason I toss and turn on those nights when the streetlights taunt me because they turn off so automatically, while I watch the cycle from start to finish wishing I could do the same.
I’ve tried to give you up, but the days without you are longer, colder, and my enthusiasm bottoms out and sends me into a nest of blankets with closed blinds. The sun’s never as sunny when I don’t get a taste of you. I’ve even tried replacing you a couple times, trysts with lesser souls – if they don’t lack the strength, they lack the joy, and none can quite match the feeling, so I can only go without you for so long.