Devil You Know
by Max Henry
Love. How do you define it? I guess it’s up to the individual. Love can be a sweet gesture of flowers on your anniversary. Love can be a meal waiting at home after a long day at work. Love can be a gentle caress. Or the unspoken words in your lover’s eyes. Love isn’t a backhand, given because of a warm beer. Love isn’t wearing long-sleeves to hide bruises from the ladies at the supermarket. I thought I’d never experience love. Such emotion didn’t seem to fit with what I had—who I was. But he stepped in, and showed me his. He pulled me from the dark abyss I had lost myself to, and showed me the simple things which could bring such joy. Sun on my face. The smell of fresh coffee. Colours in the autumn leaves. All the little things. He shows me these things, but he doesn’t share in them. He knows happiness, but he doesn’t feel it. He will give love, but never accept it. He saved me. Now it’s my turn to return the favour…