He stole roses from the police garden with two policemen yelling at him and a dog running after him, while jumping a wire fence, just because he thought the rose was too cute to be there and it belong to me, on my pillow.

He fought off cuts and bruises, nettles and bushes, thorns and stings, insects and rodents to collect and give me this huge, perfect, multicolored and somewhat poisonous bouquet of wild flowers. I threw it in the back seat of the car, because I was pissed at him for … I don’t remember what for.

He stopped people on the street to make a survey, a vox populi by asking them if they though we look good together and if we’ll end up forever.

Went on Google maps, to locate his house and neighborhood and kept it on my screen saver for an undisclosed amount of time. While at that, also checked his neighboring houses for identifying of the “older, wiser, married” one, who took a bite of him when he was young.

Wrote him several 30 pages long love letters, always in the middle of the night ‘til dawn, to get him out of me and finally get some sleep. Wrapped the last one in B quality, brown toilet paper. He said he smelled it when it reached him, disappointed it didn’t smell like me.
I bid farewell by killing him in a short story I wrote, setting myself free because I didn’t belong to myself anymore.

Note to self: romance brings out the psycho in me. I bring out the psycho and felony in others.