He was the Milky Way. The stars danced off his tongue with every liquor stained letter that passed through his chapped lips, and his eyes were suns that beamed into my own baby blue's. He was the astmosphere that carried pure, pull-apart clouds that were easy to fill up and spew with cackles of thunder and cracks of lightning that ran across the midnight sky. He was the one. The one for me since he slept in my bed in the sixth grade with a sound face, his lips curled in a sleep he craved in a week. It's creepy-it's weird. But he was for me for the past four years. I wanted him to run into my arms and I wanted him to bawl his eyes out to me, I wanted him to trust me and kiss my lips so I could taste his black lipstick and cigarette smoke. But dreams are dreams, and God knows he deserves better then the ground below his feet.