My Favourite

"You are my favourite collection of heartbreaks." I whispered, running my finger slowly on his chest.

"I am forever grateful for the clenching pain on your chest; for all the unhappiness that you have felt over the course of your adulthood, for all the sorrow you had to live with when you were just a mere son of someone, and for all the faults you didn't do. Because they all had led me to you."

A finger touched my chin, causing me to look up from my favourite space––the crook of his neck. "Tell me truly, is that a romanticisation version of me? I am guided by my past, a houseful of haunted halls, hidden chambers, unknown horrors, broken remnants of internal wars, dark heated rage, and cold empty basement. Are you willing to venture? To deal with these dark creatures that I, myself, don't have any idea how to handle? To completely and permanently get rid of them?"

It was very intense;

what he said,

the look in his eyes,

what I felt for him and

the feel of our physical being

together, intertwined, unbroken by reality.

I put a kiss on his lips, briefly. There was this inability that kept me from breaking a magical moment that was blunt, forward honesty in which everything was laid bare, unhindered, and, more importantly, raw.

"Maybe I don't need to get rid of it all," I suggested, "I am already living with you, alongside you, and by your side. Who says that I can't live inside you; inside your inalterably chaotic brain and frequently used heart? I have overflowing love inside of me, that I need some large space––a gigantic container, even––to fill it. Your house has all the space, crooks, and nooks that I possibly need.

The question is, will you let me in? Or are you afraid of not being in the dark?"

As I posed that question, I could tell, because of his raw truths, that there was a possibility where the master key was already in my hand.