To my bitch.

You, you, you.

I’m sorry for this afternoon’s little banter and I’m sorry I made you cry.

And I’m sorry I can’t express romance in the same somber tones of Byron.

I can’t tell you how graceful you are and blah blah blah.

But this I know, you’re annoyingly funny and when you pout, I feel as though the whole world needs to make you smile.

Heh, as long as vamps go; you’re the finger down my spine on a cold, dark night.

But really, you’re the most fun person to be around with you; junk food, gassy drinks, scrabble games, and the usual argument about the music that should be played, be it 80’s rock, or my metal.

I know, you’re a bitch, and I’m the complete jackass. And you make it seem as though I exist on my own time and space (which is existentially true).

Lastly, I love having a beer with you, but not on the carpark.

I love watching you through the smoke swirls you and I blow at each other creating a false rudeness.

And I love you.

You may not be her first, her last, or her only. She loved before she may love again. But if she loves you now, what else matters? She’s not perfect - you aren’t either, and the two of you may never be perfect together but if she can make you laugh, cause you to think twice, and admit to being human and making mistakes, hold onto her and give her the most you can. She may not be thinking about you every second of the day, but she will give you a part of her that she knows you can break - her heart. So don’t hurt her, don’t change her, don’t analyze and don’t expect more than she can give. Smile when she makes you happy, let her know when she makes you mad, and miss her when she’s not there.

— Bob Marley