She is a stuttering soliloquy. A wounded symphony played by an orchestra of her family's I-told-you-so's. A tattered woman who bleeds like an oak tree. Her life story is just a sandpaper love song written on a napkin full of all the reasons why no one should ever try to hug the rain. You always end up soaking wet and by yourself.

She has violin strings for legs, a graveyard of awkward treble clefs buried in her knees and I can see the suffering inside of the concert of her walk.

She comes over on Wednesdays. Walks into my room like a question that neither one of us has the courage to ask. Sometimes, words get too heavy to sit on the ivory pedestals that we've built inside of our mouths. Sometimes, our actions join hands and become behaviors that are too complicated for lips to say out loud, so instead, we just liberate our flesh, letting skin speak on our behalf, the language of those who are just as afraid of commitment as they are of being alone and we speak it like it's our native tongue.

Honestly, I can't tell you her favorite color, her middle name or what her face looks like during the day. All I know is that we are both allergic to the exact same things. Compliments, the word beautiful, and someone saying I love you with arms full of acceptance and sincerity on their breath.

Most days, I wonder what she carries in the luggage underneath her eyes. I wonder if those bags ever get too heavy for her face. But instead, I let those questions sandcastle inside of my stomach. I amputate the parts of me that have grown fond of her smell.

I wash my sheets and I think to myself, most men are proud of things like this.