You're not the first person she loved; the first person she looked at with a mouthful of forevers. She has lived at the edges of cliffs and in little mountain houses that tell horrific stories. It was a tragedy that whenever she could accept herself truly, she changed. She romanticized her lovers so much that it poisoned her every other beautiful memory. And every time her blooming heart was shattered, she loathed them with every piece of it. She craved for a new lover with her unguarded way of existence. You wouldn't understand how sexy that was. Her raw, carefree laughter that would fill your winter mornings with warmth and joy and her silent loud cries that oozed pain every time she made love to a stranger. Cigarette smoke filled her summer afternoons and a heart wrenching pain clouded her autumn nights. It wasn't that she never loved enough. She'd just fall in love with too many things at the same time. She was the queen of drag and drama, a heartthrob of the riders and a home to many wanderers. It was unlikely that she could ever understand what platonic love means; for she could move from places to places, from one man to another yet she couldn't feel like home.