fiftyeight.

He was my vicodin vixen. With one look of his prescription upon the bottle, he had me addicted. With one euphoric taste of his sweet sorrow, he had me lifted. Upon nimbus nine, I was a height among the heavens, where I could look down at the land of which was mine. He had me feeling blessed. He was my painkiller. And without his re-occuring droughts of dire, disaster would proceed to dampening my mood. The only one that would help me remain sane was him. I wasn't sprung for no reason because he had uncoiled me from tangled up situations where I once was twisted. And the aftermath of my untwisting would have been a flood of euphoria, among my sad existence, he was my blissful intermission. Yes, only a simple intermission because we nearly never had any alone time. Yet once, alone, I tasted that of my sweet addiction. Sorry if you don't understand, there's no need.