Two Nights
It was two nights in a row.
Two nights she had slid into bed with him, or waited for him to crawl into her bed, reaching for each other's warmth, needing a human body pillow. This was the first two nights they had slept together without sex. At first, she had desired the intimacy, to sleep next so someone, feel their nakedness next to you and only want to curl your arm around their neck and rest you head into the nook of his shoulder.
But that first night, getting ready to be alone, she resigned herself to her store-bought body pillow. But of course, he arrived, knocking on the door, alcohol rolling off his breath in toxic fumes, stumbling into bed like it was home. She had curled up next to him, wanting the intimacy, but only feeling the solitude of an unconscious body next to hers.
But the second night, he had stuck around, she yawned with pleasure as she pulled the blanket over her, feeling him next to her, awake and with her. She remembers drifting in and out of sleep as she hears the dim of music floating from the computer he is using, remembers a hand sliding towards her, wrapping around her waist tightly. Remembers feeling every tremor through his arm as his chest starts shuddering, remembers why she fell in love with him in the first place. There is so much pain there, she is drawn to it, as someone who has never felt pain that made her shudder, she wants to pull herself as physically close as she can to it, just in case some of it seeps through from his skin to hers.
And then she dreams about him walking away and awakes to his back facing hers. She tentatively reaches for him. His face crumples in a sleep scowl and pulls away.
She still stays.
--------------------------------
Drunk and high from their infatuated love, she would sneak out of houses in the dead of winter with sockless feet and thin jackets, she would fumble for her jeans and reach over to kiss him in the middle of driving, so heated and passionate that they are forced to stop by the side of the road, waiting until they have cooled down, recklessly ignoring the loud zoom of cars passing by curiously. She would scrub his back in the shower, waiting for him to turn around so their lips would meet under the insistent pounding of hot water. She remembers being cold where the water dripped off her skin, and hot where his skin sticks to hers. She could pull him into deserted library corners, empty lecture halls, lone walkways where nobody was around. Who was this girl? The same, quiet one that never lifted her head in class? That would find it ghastly to upset anyone and would look away at the sight of couples leaning in for a kiss. She is the same one that locks his shoulders down, that lets herself be held submissive, cloth bounded tight around her wrists, ankles. That at first would just be a passive listener in heated phone conversations but soon indulges in them with still-shy enthusiasm. That would creep down derelict basements to steal a kiss and maybe a little more.
She has lost her balance, her rationality, her logic. She spins around laughing at the dizziness. Doesn't care.
Then he tilts his head and stops her midway and kisses her. Hey, I love you. Smile disappears. Cares. But no.
It's wrong. The tears appear. Then it becomes a r-e-l-a-t-i-o-n-s-h-i-p with l-o-v-e. Wrong. She begs him in the middle of the night with gasping breath through hot tears, not to say that. Not to mention those words. It hurts more than honesty and reality.
Please. Don't even give her the slightest hope. She is happy in the hopeless fairy tale they have because at least she knows the ending.
I am staying with you only because I am waiting for the day I can finally tell you I'm leaving and you say 'please don't'.
-Updated-
Two nights she had slid into bed with him, or waited for him to crawl into her bed, reaching for each other's warmth, needing a human body pillow. This was the first two nights they had slept together without sex. At first, she had desired the intimacy, to sleep next so someone, feel their nakedness next to you and only want to curl your arm around their neck and rest you head into the nook of his shoulder.
But that first night, getting ready to be alone, she resigned herself to her store-bought body pillow. But of course, he arrived, knocking on the door, alcohol rolling off his breath in toxic fumes, stumbling into bed like it was home. She had curled up next to him, wanting the intimacy, but only feeling the solitude of an unconscious body next to hers.
But the second night, he had stuck around, she yawned with pleasure as she pulled the blanket over her, feeling him next to her, awake and with her. She remembers drifting in and out of sleep as she hears the dim of music floating from the computer he is using, remembers a hand sliding towards her, wrapping around her waist tightly. Remembers feeling every tremor through his arm as his chest starts shuddering, remembers why she fell in love with him in the first place. There is so much pain there, she is drawn to it, as someone who has never felt pain that made her shudder, she wants to pull herself as physically close as she can to it, just in case some of it seeps through from his skin to hers.
And then she dreams about him walking away and awakes to his back facing hers. She tentatively reaches for him. His face crumples in a sleep scowl and pulls away.
She still stays.
--------------------------------
Drunk and high from their infatuated love, she would sneak out of houses in the dead of winter with sockless feet and thin jackets, she would fumble for her jeans and reach over to kiss him in the middle of driving, so heated and passionate that they are forced to stop by the side of the road, waiting until they have cooled down, recklessly ignoring the loud zoom of cars passing by curiously. She would scrub his back in the shower, waiting for him to turn around so their lips would meet under the insistent pounding of hot water. She remembers being cold where the water dripped off her skin, and hot where his skin sticks to hers. She could pull him into deserted library corners, empty lecture halls, lone walkways where nobody was around. Who was this girl? The same, quiet one that never lifted her head in class? That would find it ghastly to upset anyone and would look away at the sight of couples leaning in for a kiss. She is the same one that locks his shoulders down, that lets herself be held submissive, cloth bounded tight around her wrists, ankles. That at first would just be a passive listener in heated phone conversations but soon indulges in them with still-shy enthusiasm. That would creep down derelict basements to steal a kiss and maybe a little more.
She has lost her balance, her rationality, her logic. She spins around laughing at the dizziness. Doesn't care.
Then he tilts his head and stops her midway and kisses her. Hey, I love you. Smile disappears. Cares. But no.
It's wrong. The tears appear. Then it becomes a r-e-l-a-t-i-o-n-s-h-i-p with l-o-v-e. Wrong. She begs him in the middle of the night with gasping breath through hot tears, not to say that. Not to mention those words. It hurts more than honesty and reality.
Please. Don't even give her the slightest hope. She is happy in the hopeless fairy tale they have because at least she knows the ending.
I am staying with you only because I am waiting for the day I can finally tell you I'm leaving and you say 'please don't'.
-Updated-
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