He loves all things classic; books, movies, places. He has a manly statuesque but looks like an imp when he laughs. But I love that part of him anyway. He don't eat mushroom when it is soaked in soups, he loves it on pizzas. He can't eat his fries without ketchup and a lil sprinkle of pepper. Cries on chick flicks but so tough and strong when he holds my shoulders and pat my head so gentle as if I will break anytime.
He loves to read and talk and stare. He was never a patient man, but he is when it comes to me. He understands my silence, my need to be alone. But he is pushy when he knows I'm at my brink of sanity, he crosses the lines I draw. Strips the walls I built and delicately rebuilt it when I'm okay. He knows my moods, when I want to talk, when I need him to push me to talk and when I really don't wanna talk (atleast for a moment). He knows how to make me calm but mastered the art of pushing which button to make me mad.
He was my best friend. My comfort. The person who makes me feel I'm home. My almost lover. And I, was once his muse.
