As I lurk my way through your past, the parts of you I missed blare like trumpets. The things you said to them throb in my skull and through my veins. I pulse with the knowledge that you cared enough to shower them with the words I can only pray you'll say to me. Or, perhaps it was so easy to love them because lies flow more smoothly than the truth. I cling to the pathetic hope that you withhold these things from me because you fear cheapening what we have with cliches and meaningless repetition. And yet this false hope doesn't comfort me in the slightest. I want words to cement the implied feelings. I want them to be jealous of me for once. The feelings they have for you are shallow and immature in comparison to the never-ending well of emotion in my soul that you alone drink from. They flock to you and provide you with faded imitations of love, but do they shudder at the sound of your name? Do their minds spin with thoughts of the endless pleasure you can give them with the slightest touch? Your skin is a drug for me and I am far beyond the point of any possible rehabilitation. A simple caress of your lips sends me to a place where only you and I exist. I have no need for oxygen, I breathe you in. You are the blood pulsing beneath the flesh that exists only to be enjoyed by you. My body bends to your every whim and my will is gone. You obliterate the strength and defiance that has never so much as wavered in any other situation with a mere glance. And that is why you come back to me. Because as much as you are my drug, the power I relinquish to you is your drug. And you are addicted to me.