Disclaimer: Don't own HP
Author's Note: Found this on my hard drive and I thought I'd share. I know I often fail at angst and my attempts are never as welcome as my usual stuff but I thought what the hey.
Also I decided to experiment with the idea of extended conceits but I put my own twist on it, I appreciate the Metaphysics but I decided to be a little bit more difficult.
No Use Crying Over Spilled Merlot
So close. The touch of your cheek clings to my fingertips, the nerve endings zapping with pent up electricity and frustration. They desperately clench and unclench trying to reach out again. Left with nothing but sweaty palms and fleeting phantom memories. My eyes follow the restless pulse I imagine in them, flicking around the room, anywhere but at you. I don't need confirmation of the waves of disappointment I can feel radiating at me. Nothing else inflicts that familiar blistering of stomach muscles quite like it. Only your slow, laboured sighs and exasperated head shaking leave such a bitter after-taste in my mouth. As usual I'm left suddenly awkward and dumb, suffering silently in the writhing acid and inferiority.
I always have this special compulsion to wrench and torture my fingers in these situations. Your 'Why do you do this?'s and 'Can't we just have a nice evening without...?'s are the soundtrack to contorted and corrupted fingers I can't drag my eyes from; joints protesting; skin pulled taut in horror at what I've done again. Suddenly you reach out and drag my twisting fingers apart, holding my hands in yours to stop the grotesque, gnarled picture I was making of them. They flex and twitch in the loose grip of their captors, aching to be released - you singe to touch.
Every whispered 'please' and confused shake of your head turns the metallic tasting screws of humiliation. I can feel nuts and bolts tightening in my chest, their kinetic warmth radiating upwards and outwards, colouring my face until it mirrors the crimson of your hair. It's suddenly unbearably hot. I have to get out. Why does this always happen? I truly am this unlovable? We're both working ourselves into a frenzy and it's all my fault. My face blazes as you grab the sides of my face in a ugly mirror of my earlier awkward seduction. Our eyes meet against my frantic will.
I'm inappropriately struck once again by them. My mind wanders to a fit of good humour I once had when I told you that you had demon eyes. Dark and impenetrable. You laughed but I was right.
No.
No more whimsical commentary on eyes or counting specks and freckles. This. Now. Being so close, faces inches apart. Moist breathe mingling. It's not fair, it's too tempting. It's too consuming.
It gets me into trouble.
Even though it aches to pull away from your I wrench and wretch myself out of your grip; I'm a mess, I can feel my self-control and dignity eroding away again. Your face ruffles in sadness and realisation and suddenly you bolt your arms to your sides and stumble back across the room.
You're learning.
You're realising how hard you make it for me. How hard it is to resist.
Some of my awkwardness filters through the soles of my bare feet and swims through the carpet of your living room. It carefully scouts around the large ruby red stain on the carpet – a souvenir of my most recent attempt at releasing my feelings. I feel the ache low in the pit of my stomach every moment of the day. The red wine is still lapping at the edges of the puddle, not fully soaked in. As an extension of myself even it knows that this incident will be forgotten. Just like all the others. Instinctively like a fawn stumbling to its feet it passes the stain by as if an end table has already been shunted and heaved over it, hiding the shame. I watch as my awkwardness is shared between us like so many late night curries and whispered secrets. The colours of my embarrassment invade your face, spreading from the rosy dots just under your other worldly eyes until your face too is swollen with an abundance of horror.
But even though you share my tumbling acidic torture and dig your cerise painted toes into the plush texture of the carpet you don't fully understand. You're ashamed that you give me false hope; you're sweet and naïve and can't fully comprehend what you do. Whereas I agonise over the sting of tears I could never shed and the oh-so-disappointed looks you give me.
'Why can't we just be friends?' your eyes ask innocently and as one small insignificant sniffle, easily brushed away by the sleeve of your jumper soon tumbles into a realm of melancholic sobbing I cross the room and pull you into "friendly" arms.
I'm sorry.
Of course I'll never do anything like that again.
No, I shouldn't have broken my promise.
Shh no more tears.
I never meant to disappoint you.