I run my fingers across the goosebumps on my arms, protracting my shoulders to curl into myself, wrapping my body tightly into a hug.
I close my eyes, willing my mind to whisk me back to when I was in your arms. A small, contented smile crosses my lips. Thank you for every moment you’ve allowed me- for the moments, tiny and far in between, will be drawn upon to slake my ever burgeoning thirst in the coming days.
I trace circles on my skin, already heightened in sensitivity by the cold air.
I’ve been reading our old conversation logs. How proud was I to think that I could be unaffected by you. I smile wryly. “You’ve raised the bar.” I repeat, laughing at my naivety. That could not be any further removed from the truth. There is no bar. There is only you. I fear the day you tire of me. It will surely come.
If I had known the despair I’d feel knowing that we will soon end, would I still have chosen this?
The foolish girls you date that attempt to make a partner out of you-
Do they not know that should you agree, they would have doomed themselves to loneliness. How can any other man ever hold a candle to you? When the storms settle, they’d be condemned to wandering the Earth seeking that which they will never find again.
I am but twenty-three. Spare me. Save me. Ruin me. Use me.
The desolation I feel is stony and stark. Grim. Bleak. Yet, I continue to smile. Even if I were to lose myself pursuing this as I may very well already have, my fate was sealed long ago.
“Writhe for me. Writhe with me. Writhe without me.”
And so I shall.
The fates have woven our threads together, however briefly. Who am I to challenge them? My arrogance has already played me for a fool.
Yet, given a do-over, I’d still choose this. It was an illusion of choice. Your way with words would have drawn me in once we conversed. Hook, line and sinker.
Don’t worry about me. I am content. Perhaps even happy. I can live on memories. The words you’ve typed these past few months are a gift in excess.
I was never going to fall for you. I’m incapable of that. Plan A, Plan B, Plan C. It was needless. If there is even the faintest doubt in my mind that I may waver, I’d altogether harden my heart. Emotions buried so deep down that even I would struggle to retrieve them. But you’ve enraptured my mind. And for that I’m yours.
There is no cost-benefit analysis. Whatever you offer, however scant, however fleeting, will always tilt the scales your way.
I made a promise months back that I’d let you know in the miniscule, less than 1 in 1.0×10^-62, unlikely-to-ever-occur-in-the-lifespan-of-this-universe, chance that I’d let you know.
I am trapped, not by you, but by the prison of my mind. The mind that fully understands that nothing will ever come close to you.
I cannot be placated with another.
I’d no sooner grasp at straws, forever relentlessly chasing the connection we once held. But in the depths of the night, when my mind is free to drift, in my dreams I’ll see a familiar figure and I will wake content, happy, a wan smile on my face.
I do not confess to love. I am devoid of that sentiment. If there were any flames, it was snuffed out long ago.
So, no, I have not fallen for you. And I will never unlock that part of me without your will. You needn’t fear my unrequited feelings.
But, my love, my sweet beautiful love, I yearn for your touch; I mourn for the connection we had.
I want for nothing but to sleep with you: to be held in your arms, to feel your lips pressed against my skin, to feel your warmth radiating across my back, to have you caress my yielding flesh, to be marked by your force.
Have at me.
But yet, I’m greedy. I sorely miss what we had. You were the first – the only – person I’ve met whose words could lift my heart and inspire my mind. You were – you are – my muse. As friends with benefits, the benefits are surely great, but I want more. Regale me with accounts of your life, share with me your thoughts beyond those in and of the bedroom.
I have laid bare my heart before you.
You abhor drama. I apologise. But I would rather this than have you pick up on it and make things between us awkward. If you can’t grant what I want, I understand, just as I hope you will understand that I had to try to turn the clock back.
The fear of losing you plagues me. Maybe I already have. Are you already lost to me, my muse?