I suppose that it's irony that I can feel nothing and everything at once. Maybe an oxymoron. Maybe a cliché. Or maybe just a girl trying desperately to out think her pain.
I could not lie with her without one of us touching in some way—obscure or precise, it need not matter. Sometimes there's words and sometimes there's silence. She cherishes the rare moments I stop speaking my mind long enough for her to breathe. And I? Well, I listen with every sense I'm aware of anytime she finally speaks up after trials of begging, minor threats, and crafty manipulation. Especially with my heart. It's what kills me in the end anyways. Metaphorically speaking of course, since I cannot die.
When we kiss her electric energy flows in wicked webs under my skin, humming to a tune that isn't heard, but felt. Sometimes I let my eyes flicker open just a hair to watch her emotions cross her face. Sometimes I catch her doing the exact same thing.
Oh! To put into words making love to a woman who is both yours and is not is a painstaking process!
There are glances full of questions and whispers inaudible. A touch isn't always just a touch and taking turns flew out the window a long time ago. I take what I can get, thank you. And I want it all. Please. No? Alright, looks like I'll take that anyways.
In between our moans and groans I interrupt our laughter with a thick unwanted silence brought on by my own fears and doubts. Because why is it that we are not committed? What is the hold up? The answer is always complications. She looks at me on the surface as if it's obvious. I fill myself up with animosity that I shoot straight at her.
If looks could kill, love.
She says go away and come here all in one breath. When I say goodbye she screams no and hello. I sigh and she rolls her eyes. She accuses and I defend what little sliver of dignity I somehow managed to reserve just for me. I love her and she knows this. She said it once by accident and although it was nice to hear, reassurance is not her forte. I inform her that hearts change and she looks at me as if I just told her not only was Santa Clause not real, but he also would have brought her coal each year. As if I had that power. As if she doesn't deserve it.
To all of you that have touched a woman you know what a blessing it is. In all of her natural self and desire and purity and madness there is a beauty that not any form of words, however conjured, could ever explain. To watch and feel as you follow the dips in her back, to run your lips over her neck and hear her breath hitch, to drown in her scent of need...is all a magic wilder than ecstasy. But with desire comes consequence.
We meet the following day or two or nine. Sometimes we act like lovers, sometimes I hold a grudge thick in my throat that tries to wiggle tears out of my ducts. She'd shock those for sure if she ever saw them. And although I can feel nothing, we both know that hurts me like nothing else. The sting of her ignorance, the smothering sickness of her incapability, it all leads up to one thing.
To hold on, or not to hold on?
That seems to be the question…