On Opening Up.

The nights when you are here are never nearly as long as the nights when you are not.

And therefore, not long enough.

flash.

I wish I had the words to describe how it felt, so people understood.

So they knew the way you squeeze my knee sometimes, so absentmindedly it already feels like habit.

So they knew the way those snarky petnames sometimes took on a genuine, affectionate tone.

So they could see how lovely it is to have you set my head on your chest, call me sweetheart, and take care of my mess of a mane and try to keep my earrings from bothering me all night.

I wish they could see the way you look at me sometimes, or the way you’ll play with my hair when I’m getting sleepy.

I wish I could pin down the exact way it felt to be wrapped up in your arms, while your free hand traced invisible lines and circles all over my skin.

I wish I could snapshot the way you’ll make noises, and poke my nose, and hold your lips j..u..s..t over mine until I can’t stand it anymore.

I wish I could just trap the shimmery, elusive, fleeting moments in a box, just to remind myself how it feels on nights like these.

words.

I just want you.  I just want you.  I just want you.

It’s like I see you and my body settles in.  Like its found a resting place.  Assuming a natural position next to you, even without contact.

I’ve found myself noticing that I automatically search for you in social situations—even when I know you’re not there, because I gathered the people myself.

I can’t remember the last time I wanted something this bad.

My head on your chest, your sleepy voice cooing “sweetheart”, your unsure hands pulling bobby pins from my tangled curls.

I think the best part of sleeping with you is when you shove me off my own bed, comforter and all.

And then decide you miss the heat and physical contact and crawl down and join me.

And we fall asleep, tangled in a comforter on the floor, my hair velcro-ed to the scruff of your face, your lips set on my temple in the most hesitant, tentative top-of-the-head kiss possible.

And I wake up in your arms, to you poking my nose and making noises at me.

I call you weird, but neglect to tell you how perfect that makes you for me.

I have this nearly painful swelling in my chest.  I mean, my heart is overinflated.  I’m sitting here and my eyes are filling, and my rib cage is stinging, and I’m dying to reach for you.

This was destructive, but its what I needed.  I know what I want, and I know I’m going for it, with everything in me.

I’m just attempting to figure out how I have to get there.

This feels right, this feels necessary, and I can feel how much I love you taking up residence in my bones.

Maybe you didn’t get away.

This is crippling.  Laying in bed, drowning in tumbling waves of disappointment and regret.

Feeling the most painful, ravaging desire to touch your skin, pull you in, suck you in, absolutely suffocate in all the essences of you.  Pull you inside of me so hard, fast, and savagely that neither of us will catch our breath.

To feel you hold that gaze, hold my face, touch me in all of those beautiful, blossoming, hiding places.  To pull my heartstrings with your eyes that felt so much.  You felt so much.

Your entire presence in my life is completely enveloped by the smeary haze of desire.  I just want your scruff on my skin, my hands in your hair.

This is devastating, unfair, and leaving me breathless and paralyzed. 

Drink me in or I’ll drink you down.

Trainwreck.

I’m beginning to realize the gravity of my mistake.

What’s meant to be will be and all that shit, right?  Well, I’ll probably just sit here and place a pretty solid bet that even fate can’t undo what I did.

I meant every word I said, and I’m sorry I didn’t follow through.  I would give anything for a re-do.  Second chance.  Fresh start.  Clean slate.

I’m really missing ticklefights in the kitchen over sharp knives and hot ovens.  I’m really missing all the bare skin intertwined and tucked under covers.

Anyway.

Wishing I still had you, Red.

Mayday.

It is just so nice to have someone to stumble upstairs with at the end, laughing and interlocking fingers and sloppily falling into bed.

Knowing, given the opportunity, I’d roll over and suck you right in.

But instead, there’s just some fumbling arms thrown over hazy sides, a few sleepy snufflings, some accidental bare skin and passing out.

And the lips to naked shoulder in parting are unnecessary. That kind of thing touches a part of me I’m trying desperately to hide, and you’re coaxing it out.

It’s not the drunken escapades, really, that lure that little sore spot our. It’s the laughing, the few words sliding silvery over my ear before loss of consciousness.
It’s the butterflies I suddenly get when I see your not so sober fingers searching for mine. The suddenly soft goodbyes, and the way they look at me when I look at you.

This is not a crush.

Selfish.

I’m tired of sitting here and writing everything I think I need to say to you.

There is nothing to say.  I was a child, and you simply couldn’t handle the whirlwind that is me.

I’m not sure what my allure is.  I completely lack a typical sex appeal, and I can’t place my finger on what keeps them coming back for more.  Glutton for punishment?

I am a temptress, and of the worst variety.  I can pull you in, but will no longer want what you have as soon as I’ve got it.

Yet, lately, my vanity gets the best of me.  I don’t want you.  I want you yearning for me, dreaming of me, and remembering me as the one that got away.

Paper your heart with my picture.