His name was Wilde. And yes. It means exactly what you think it does. To others he was just an average boy, but to me he was everything.
He was the kind of boy Momma used to warn me about. The kind with the dark eyes that stared into your soul. The kind who always lingered everywhere with a cigarette in hand. The kind with the unkempt hair and carefree laugh, with the attractive smirk and teeth that always sunk into pink lips.
The kind that didn’t have to ask you to do anything, but you’d already do it because you wanted to make him happy. The kind that always held you in his arms, not so show off or try to be possessive but simply because he liked feeling you close to him.
The kind that believed in everything. In aliens, in God, in life after death, in love. The kind that rarely got angry and would never, in this life or the next, hit a woman. The kind that never judged anyone. The kind that believed in Human Rights. The kind that understood that we were all different.
He was the kind of boy that you’d easily fall in love with. The kind I craved. The kind I would drink alcohol for. The kind I would snort cocaine off of a bar counter for. The kind I’d lose my dignity for. My innocence… Myself…
But you see… The thing with Wilde is that he never wanted me to change. I was the silence to his chaos. And that was enough for the both of us.
His name was Wilde…