I haven't written in years. Literally years; about 7 I think. I felt the need to write, only I don't know how. So I poured my thoughts into this. It's improper and one big run on paragraph full of big run on sentences with the wrong punctuation and only half of the capitalization it needs. I think it's best to write like a little kid, and that's to do just that, just write. But all of that thinking nonsense gets in the way!
Anyway, I don't own Naruto, or Haruno Sakura, or Uchiha Sasuke; Kishimoto, the evil genius of tragic love and heartbreaking friendships owns all of them, though he does loan them out to me (and you, and the rest of the world) once or twice a week.
Please don't be too mean, as I said, I've not written in years. :)
she loved that about him. The way his hair smelled on the bridge in the morning, like minty soap. And the way it smelled at night after a long mission, like rain and apple seeds, two things she never knew mixed so well. She honestly couldn't tell you which scent she loved more, and she didn't care to choose. She just wanted to smell it every day for the rest of her life, either one. She loved the way her imagination made his skin taste, heaving in musky scents pouring from his clothes and sucking warm skin that had minuscule flakes of dust dancing on the tip of her tongue; dirt could only taste good on him. The pale of his lips teased her more than a candy store when you're 8 years old with its gleaming colors and droplets of sugary sweetness in the windows offering themselves to you if only you'll buy them; his lips did not offer themselves to her though and she loved them just the same, because even with no expression on them, letting only gravity and speech structure their shape, they were beautiful and complete and capable of things that should never cross a lady's mind, but surely would at the most inconvenient times. Like when she's watching him bicker with an idiot and he glances into her face and she swears he can see her thoughts, and she silently wishes he would grant them, even if he denied it every moment for the rest of their lives. the thickness of his eyes, as black as the deep sky on a moonless night, hundreds of miles away from any manmade light; the only difference between the two were the number of stars; his eyes held far more than the moonless night, even if they kept their secrets to only her. She wondered what his kiss tasted like, she was sure it was a mixture of impossible and forever, with a hint of 'thankyouimsorrytellmeyouloveme' just to make her heart hurt for what he would never let her give him. She saw the need in his eyes, maybe not for her but maybe just for the feeling of being loved and many girls would give it but only she would mean it, only she would mean it and never take it back no matter how many times he hurt her or walked away or chose him over her, and it'd be eternal and it'd be subtle or strong or hiding, whatever he wished, whenever he wished. She wished she could read his thoughts, only the ones he was okay with, of course, just so he wouldn't have to tell her he needed her, just so his pride would break and she could love him in the open, or even in the secret premises of his 3am bedroom with the lights off and the alarm clock flashing bright red warnings at them and they would ignore it and make love anyway just so he could not hurt so much for a thread of time, even if he told her to get out right after and never looked at her or said her name the whole time, she wished for that. she remembered that night; September eighth, it was the same day he left but something like 4 years or lifetimes later. she woke right before midnight and her body told her to run, run, run, so she did, she ran, ran, ran, through the torrential downpour. It was the heaviest rain she'd ever experienced, tied only with once before when a certain someone was returned on the back of their teacher bearing a metal headband and a broken promise. But she ran anyway, until she saw him, standing in the last place she'd ever seen him stand inside these walls. He was still facing away, as he had been that day, but she knew he knew she was there. She stood long and hard, and did not move, and did not speak, and did not tell him 'welcome back' or 'I missed you' and did not wrap her arms around him and tell him she loved him and she did not look at him, ever. The rain beating loudly against the ground, the leaves, the bench, her skin, his skin, her lips, his lips said more than she could say in her lifetime, and it was all the words they needed and all the things they couldn't say, and all the things he could but never would. he shoved his hands into his pocket, and despite how differentsimilarbroken he was, she knew his face without even looking. The same face from all those times before no matter was it death, annoyance, or just plain indifference, she knew it was him, she knew that was his face and she knew more than he could say, she knew she loved him and she knew everything and nothing all at once and he walked toward the village and the rain soaked him and continued to tell her his secrets and he continued to listen to hers as she stood motionless under the drenching rain with no invitation, to meet his return without a spoken word. she loved him, and he knew. She didn't know if he loved her, and neither did he. He walked past her silently, and the scent of the rain strengthened, mixing with apple seeds and heartbreak. She loved that about him.