v u l v a l i c i o u s
Wherever I go, there she is
It’s funny how she never goes away. She came back today and I was the same as ever, and hating myself for it. I want to hold her in conversation for a thousand years or until I finally tire of her.
Will I? Will I ever? I listen to the same song on repeat and wonder if they are out to get me once again; wonder who they are, anyway.
It is her, always. The face, hardly delicate, pale but lively; the eyes set back and falling deeper with their incessant darkness. The feeling of those eyes looking into mine (even from so far away) is too much, and I look away, wondering aloud about little things. I have to catch my breath far too often.
But if I could, I would tell her these things. Gratitude would spill out slowly yet in a steady stream, tapering honey flowing from my fingertips. Or maybe honey is too sweet, and my gratitude is water. I would tell her how she saves me, how she makes me feel when things are dark. I would let her know that sometimes I love her, that the people back home laugh over my crush—the crush I cannot control, that affronts me whenever I am around her. Gratitude. The fact that I want to thank her over and over for simply existing, for listening, for talking with me.
I want to play her every song I know. I want to sing with her, to her, and then have her sing with me, to me.
I want her to know the song I am listening to right now, and I want to believe it is true when I see her, when she sees me.
I want her soul to surround me on cold nights, but from far away.
This is too much for a Cunt to ask from someone like her. Far too much to ask.