Everything has a pretense with her.
We were going to be friends.
Naive, I tried.
I didn't think she was interested like that.
I didn't think she wanted me like that.
Well, we did.
The space between us:
Pulsating music brought us together.
I couldn't breath.
I couldn't breath enough.
She makes my skin tingle.
And then, when I can't see straight anymore, her touch guides me back to now.
It's dizzying, electric, otherworldly.
When she touches me like that, my breath snags.
I struggle to obtain oxygen.
The here and now cease to exist when her eyes bore into mine.
I forget what day it is when she laughs.
Her fingers gently touching mine immediately accelerates my heart rate.
When she talks no other noise exists.
Her cadence brings a juxtaposed comfort and exhilaration.
She says cherish.
And I do.
How could I possibly disregard the words that come from those lips?
My heart curled up in fear.
My stomach clenched in resistance.
My brain screamed in warning.
She wasn't there.
The place of my heart.
She would never be there.
She wouldn't be able to see past it all.
She held my hand.
I know. After everything, it was something so mundanely nonsexual.
And it wasn't to stay with me in a crowd.
It wasn't to be silly.
It wasn't ironic.
It felt like her hand holding mine was saying all of the words that neither of us could say out loud.
The words that even our mouths melded together couldn't communicate.
The words that expressed something deeper, stronger... something more.
I am the focus of her attention.
Her friends know who I am.
She says she cares for me.
But I am no fairy tale.
I am no great romance.
Her attention will be fleeting.
She says the expectations would kill it.
Neither of us are in a healthy place.
But when will we be?
When she looks at me the world still stops.
When she touches my arm I still get dizzy.
When she kisses my neck I almost still cry.
When she holds me like that it still feels so right.
When she speaks her words are still the only thing that matters.
And this is all quite ridiculous.
We are not even putting a label on shit.
We hardly know each other.
But it's exhilarating.
I collect information about her.
And put it somewhere special in my brain.
She's constantly on my mind.
I meet someone new.
Cuz, of course we aren't exclusive.
And can only think about her.
On the bus I smell her.
Catch a scent.
But it's only my coat.
That's soaked her up over time.
Sometimes I get scared.
A lot of the time.
I know the walls I built around my heart aren't enough.
I know the hazmat suit warding off the feelings isn't doing shit.
I know that my heart and gut and brain and body crave her.
It terrifies me that I care so deeply it conjures up that word we absolutely cannot say under any circumstances.
I want something from this that I have no right to even ask for.
I'd like to be with her.
And fuck expectations.
And emotional baggage.
And each of our histories.
But that's my pussy talking.
My brain reminds me those things matter.
But we matter.
There isn't even the hope of being an us.
But that's okay.
My heart will carry on its expectations regardless of my brain.
We hold hands.
As we walk away.