I thought you cowardly- but I looked at myself and could say no more.

"What If's" are bullshit.

It would be a whirl wind of something new and exciting if we were to let go of the infallible paranoia of hurting one of another. It would be... different. But is it really worth it? You've already pulled out a band aid for what could have been and she's quirky and full of life... Beautiful. As for me, well, my medication is in the form of scratch marks and love bites I don't normally like marring my skin- from others. Is it bad that I adore them now- because it's not something you'd do? Mark's you wouldn't leave, because you know I hate them- because you were peculiar about what I liked and didn't (even though you are a biter).  Your track record says to be cautious but mine says to slow the fuck down. I hate having something so fucking tempting right under my nose, five days a week. I know if I partake then I will burn my tongue, but I know I'll still eat. And it'll hurt so fucking good. But would it be worth it?

I know it is not.

 But I wish it was.

Fuck

She smiles despite herself because this girl before her, eyes shining, dainty fingers running through long hair- mooning over him, is fucking wonderful. She`s beautiful, full of life, and someone who isn`t her. And that`s when she realizes that he`s truly fucking sloppy. And what`s worst, is that he knows he is.

But she still can`t hate him.

Will you let me discover you and figure out your quirks? Will you be able to share your woes if at all to at least have voiced them to someone like me? Maybe it isn't me who you'll let in but whoever it is I hope she'll  treasure it.

Most- if one were to measure.

She loves him most when he loses his laid-back composure... mostly because it gives way to his eccentricities that are carefully tucked behind crooked smiles and charismatic grins.

She loves him most when he 's  fatigued from a days work but is unable to wipe the deliriously faint smile of joy off his lips. The same smile that he presses to her forehead before bed.

She loves him most when his anger gets the most of him and he's too far gone to even understand it all but he anchors onto her.

She loves him most when his eyes are filled to the brim in consternation and he knows not what to do. So he slips between the sheets in silence- retreating into himself and turns his back to her.

Oh, she loves him alright but she knows to give him a certain level of space despite the proximity of their limbs. She also knows, that sometime in the evening she'll find her way pressed into his back with her hand resting on his stomach.

Oh, damn, does she love him.

More introspection is needed. I need to fuckin asses myself everyday. I don't like the way things are going. For fuck's sake I need to- check myself. I'm spiraling out of control.

Will you let me discover you and figure out your quirks? Will you be able to share your woes if at all to at least have voiced them to someone like me? Maybe it isn't me who you'll let in but whoever it is I hope she'll  treasure it.

He fancied his memory of her to be that of the whimsical sort- layered with sickeningly sweet evenings and  the warmth of their bed. A fucking fairy tale that had flipped into a Grimm's tale.

I worried that maybe it'd be easy

for me to care too much about you. 

So I kept you at an arms length away.

That just didn't work and you were more

than endearing enough to wiggle pass that.

Damn it.

I knew this would happen.

She thinks maybe he's just one of those men that knows how to make a woman smile just so.  Enough to tease her and have her shyly look away.

She fancies that he's the type that takes pleasure in the tinkle of a giggle as he pulls her near. Or maybe it's a choppy guffaw or snort that she let's loose. But he likes it all the same because it's the smile that lingers that shines through. It's all that's remarkably her and no one else in that moment.

She thinks he's the type and maybe just maybe she deserves this sort of sweet attention every once and a  while.

I think I'm infatuated with the idea of you. It certainly doesn't feel like we're friends when we hang out. But maybe that's just me. Or maybe that's because I have yet to let my guard down fully when I'm with you. Or something like that.

I think it's just me though, who's on the side awkwardly toeing the line of attraction I feel. Me, who over thinks things and who's usually good with conversation but horrendous when I feel any sort of attraction towards someone. Me who's usually the type to confront someone I care because- I care. But, also, me who's scared of the potential of caring too much that I get hurt.
Where is the courageous me?

Right now?

Balled up in the corner of my couch- watching golden girls.

I want to unravel you.

You, with the different textures 

of yarn all messily balled into 

a sphere. 

There's a part of me that entertains the fanciful idea of a whimsy sort of romance. A romance that merely throws monotony in the wind. One that would jump into a simple life of lush vineyards in the country side of France.  A romance of wine, cheese, cigarette's, reading, fishing, boat rides, bike rides, and making love. A life of simple pleasures that burns the soul and leaves me trembling in it's wake.

Romance... fanciful shit.

Time

I, most assuredly, need time.

I lack experience in the dating department,

so, please be patient with me.

You're not her type you say.

And yet if I were to sum her, 'type,' up you would be it.

You're on point baby boy.

You've become obsessed to become her elusive 'type'.

And I only wish to say that I'm exaggerating when I say 'obsessed'.

But you are.

You've lost so much weight, to the point that you can even wear my 

loose sweaters comfortably even though I'm five feet tall. 105 pounds.

The things that you merely boast about have become about material 

things.

Losing weight to you now is like a trophy. Your eyes light up when you see that you've lost weight and you've been looking sickly. You control your calorie intake and it's lower than it should be for someone who exercises. You said once that you'd love to be my weight... but you're 5'8. 

I love you like a older sister loves their baby brother... but you're scaring me. I don't really know if you understand where I'm coming from.

I hope you're free on sunday so we can hang out again. I wanna tell you how being sick seemed the best way to be skinny for  me at one point.

Small secretive smiles. 

I quite like those.

More specifically the ones where the persons

eyes are lit with a dim glow of happiness. 

Yeah, those were my favorite kind of smiles on you.

I pretended to smile and laugh when you

made those engagement jokes.

It's not fucking funny.

I regret telling you now.

Because I don't know if you've ever seen

a person try to hold back from crying. But I was.

I was having a hard time opening my mouth to tell

you about it in the first place. The fact that I

even attempted to explain to 

you the reason why I'm not going to 

spend the rest of my life with the one person I would- was

fucking hard. 

You're either an insensitive twat or fucking clueless.

Either or... I'm appalled.

Ugh. I kind of don't want to be your friend anymore. 

But at the same time I want to explain myself to you- so you'll

learn to be more fucking perceptive.

More emotions flickered across her
face when she buried her nose in a book
than when she kissed him the morning
for work.

Sometimes I get prideful and think that maybe my feelings for you have faded (at least a little bit). So I make the mistake of lingering. And then there’s this heaviness in my chest that increases the more I try to push it down- to try to control it. But it’s irrepressible and all I want to do is to unravel all over again

I wanted you.
I wanted you because I wanted to corrupt you.
Corrupt that kindness in you that scared me.
Corrupt the sweetness in you that tempted me.
I wanted to taint you.
I wanted to taint you so that when I shoved you
into a wall- you'd curl your fingers through my hair and bring me closer.
I wanted to taint you so that before our lips met you'd smirk-
knowing full well how much I wanted you.
I wanted you.

Is it hard for you to say 'I missed you'?

Your initial tight squeeze of a hug caught me off guard.

It startled me to the point of not hugging you back.

You squished my face into your chest for a little while. 

I didn't mind.

I was tempted to put my arms around you and sway.

'I missed you,' I had no problem saying it. 

I told you a while ago, that once someone 

becomes special to me, I don't look back.

Shy? 

Why?

I missed you- and that's that.

Most assuredly, the current me.

I think I talk too much.
I think it has something to do
with the fact that I spend a lot of time to myself.
That, and I'm an only child.

Although, now that I'm older-
I've learned to appreciate ones own solitude.
I've also learned to appreciate ones company
without wanting to fill up the air with words.
People find that boring.
Sometimes people
need that companionable silence,
side by side, just an acknowledging presence.
People also find that boring.
Fine- but you'll get my opinion on
the world if you let me.

Things in my life have happened to me in extremities
and my mind has adapted to make these straining leaps.
That's why my biggest defense mechanism is to forget.
It's ingrained in me to move into extremities,
but I'm attempting to learn differently.

I'm learning to listen to people.
Honestly-It's easier to listen to the bustle of the city
or that of nature than people.
Because people can use words that
can frighten me, confound me, scare me,
hurt me, inspire me, and twist different emotions in me.

I like it.

I wouldn't say, 'kinda'. Because I most assuredly do.

I wouldn't say otherwise if you labeled me masochistic.

But there is an extent.

Anyways, I'm not the greatest listener because I'm
one of those annoying people who usually
have an opinion.
But I'm learning.
I didn't say the progress was going fast.
It's at a walking pace, but I'm definitely going up.

I don't know where I'm going with all this
self analyzing but I guess.... this is the current me.

You're endearing.

I like that when we sit together our bodies are pressed
side by side. I like that it feels natural and not at all forced.
I like that when you hug me it's a true honest to goodness
hug- a hug that makes me feel missed. I like teasing you
because I like seeing your smile after that. I like your
attempts at being funny but you end up just being corny.
I like that you're a dork. It's cute, but I can't seem to get
that off my chest. Next time- I'll be sure to tell you.
But for now, Happy Valentines Day.

You said you like it when women take advantage of you.

But I didn't ask you to elaborate cause what was

going through my head was me roughly pushing you 

onto the table to give you a soft kiss. I couldn't

say the first witty thing that popped into my

head. 'Cause the first word on my tongue was,

'Fuck'.

Or maybe I'm just an easier baby machine.

Is there more to a small waist then just the inherent need to mate with one who looks "fertile"? Or am I just over thinking things? Is it the feeling of skin upon skin flushing down the slope of a small waist to the swell of ones hips? Is it the more pronounced sashay, although not deliberate in it's intent's sway? Or is it because the tapered arches leads to skin that encloses the object of one's desire in a titillating curve to behold, to squeeze with two hands?

I've been told a few times that the fact that 

I was bad with dates would be my downfall one day.

But as selfish as I am, I'm glad that I don't remember

the exact dates of certain things in my life. 

Because if I did, then I think it'd be harder for me 

to get over you when important dates of our 

time together ambled closer. I don't think I'd be able 

to bare the brunt of a sharper memory of you.

I don't know why I still love you. 

I drunkenly skyped you.

Then I cried myself to sleep.

And I don't even remember it.

I babbled a lot of 'sorry's', and 'forgive me's.

But I made sure to tell you I love you. 

I said this quietly.

And Apparently, you still love me too.

You said this quietly.

At least, that's what I was told happened.

I hope my friends not lying.

Because the makeup tear stains on the 

pillow and my shirt must mean something.

Friends don't kiss.

Do they?

I don't know anymore.

I tried going back to wearing my heart on my sleeve.

It's fucking terrifying.

So I pulled back in.

What courage did I once have?

More importantly where did it stem from?

It doesn't matter now.

I'm afraid to take leaps.

But being bitter is tiring

So I'll stick to a slow pace.

I'll crawl if I have to.

I can't be stagnant.

I guess this is a true testament of time.

I've changed.

Lips meeting if only to find something that isn’t there.

Because, why the hell not?

Just a little longer I’ll bear.

Pressing closer in hopes to feel-

So irritated- I reel.

Frustration pricks at my attention

Cool hands. Cool breath. Damn. Nothin’

A sigh and a swift step away into another’s chest

Taller, he’s taller and his smile knowing.

A cigarette proffered. A hand shake. A Lighter.

A drag and soothing warmth.

Good enough. No. Better.