I have a good boy; I really can't complain. But when he hurts, he slaughters. And when hes lonely, he's doubtful. Because no one could ever love a lightning thief, he's far too inadequate. He's far too sheltered, too justified, too particular, too popular, too inexperienced to be loved by a rag doll. But when he's upset, I feel him. When he's angry, I understand his denial for my arms, the denial of two completely misunderstood people feeling complete in one-another. But I adore him in every sense of the word, especially in those moments where he hates me for what I've done to him or I am hurt by him for distrusting me.
Although, its never his fault when he says what he feels and it hurts, because I never say what I'm thinking as my mouth protests. I'm not open; he's not closed, hes not hoping theres something more because he knows there is, without my heartbroken, muttered, stumbling-on-my-words explanation. He holds me when I'm crying and listens when I'm spewing thoughtless poetry.
When I lay down my fight, its processed. Its accepted. And he returns faithful, not faceless against the undeniable threat of leaving me- jaded and bruised and faithless. It will not be like any other time before.