.: light through the branches :.
I would ask the same question.
Mostly through haphazard kisses peppered with the taste of hard liquor. Tracing the words down your spine; relishing the response that my fingers elicited from your mouth. I would plead my case on my knees - while throwing caution to the wind and locking dignity away in a dark far away place. The walls became my witnesses. They knew my query, knew it well. I often moaned it under my breath; my whispers linger on my pillows still.
"Do you love me?"
You would answer with harsher kisses than mine. Asking me the same question behind your eyes. Pulling the reasons from my wanting body. A body that has always - and will always - answer only to you. There was a theory in my hair that you never grabbed gently. Or how about your fingers digging into my arched hips as an answer to my enquiry? You would make love to me until the sun rose. Then you would rise with it - giving me my answer.
"No."
I was a fool to think you could belong to me. She was as radiant as the sun that kissed her face. And I was as dark as the shadows the trees cast across mine. In the end I'd like to think knew that I had no chance. That I wasn't blinded by my own stupidity. That my emotions never clouded my judgment. That the answer to my question would never change. You respected me too much to lie. (Or that's what I would like to think.) But still, I would ask.
Do you love me?
As I mourned the loss of you, I found the answer yet again. Not in the passion you generally bestowed on me - in a twisted form of pity. But in the river of my tears. They traced your words across my face.
No.