I am a lover of the dark. Nothing spins me like sorrow. Untouched by anything other than devastation, sadness is what moves me. Slicing through, a sharp blade through seared fish, butter on a dish. Pain is real, it stays with you by your side with unflinching loyalty. You can trust that he will be there just around the corner, arms wide open with a beaming smile. "Welcome back," he'd say, and with poppy scented fumes, you'd let him enter all of you. He seeps into your lungs, your veins, your heart and mind, and you are his, but you are whole once again, filled with tortuous bliss. You know it's right because of the agony you feel when he's not there. The blow of a solitary existence-it's just you in there, thoughts running rampant like fire ants colonizing in your brain. You've left him once, twice, three times before but nothing matters without him. He is pain and yet his cuts and blows melt everything else away. You know who you are here, where things stand. What else can offer that kind of security? "I love you," he says and you know it to be true. He gives you everything, and despite the gaping hole in your chest, you tell yourself he's doing the best that he can, and that's good enough for you.