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It's the way he laughs. It's the stupid face he makes when someone tells a dirty joke. It's the "pervert" voice he uses that cracks me up.

It's how he uses his hands. It's the way he melts onto the piano keys. It's the deep timbre of his voice. It's the way he won't let me get away with underestimating myself.

It's that old-fashioned shirt he always wears. It's his crooked teeth. It's his "thinking" face. It's the way he says "for the love of God!" It's the way he asks questions instead of just humoring me.

It's the way his hugs are like teddy bears. It's how he's not at all what I ever thought I'd want. It's the way I'd do anything to lift him out of a bad mood.

It's because I sat there that night crying for no reason and wanted him there. Not to be perfect, not to be mine, but to be there.

It's the way it makes no sense but it's here all the same. It's the way I'm not supposed to feel.

It's the way I'm not going to feel. Not if I have any say in the matter. The illness my heart brings on me isn't stronger than my will. That's just a blood chamber. The rest of me has different ideas.

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