you were a poet. he was a guitarist, and you two were married. you often stayed up late nights trying to write. he tried to get you back to bed. you already knew he worked as some sort of prostitute.

it was 3:00AM. you were fast asleep, out cold because of the late nights. he entered the house after a long concert. he dressed and went to you guys’ room. there was a paper of your most recent poem. it’s last line said:

“Tell me every terrible thing you did, and let me love you anyway.”