My fingers trail down the little paths that her freckles make, aimlessly trying to find a path out of my thoughts.
She only pulls away from me with a smile to wander into the kitchen as if she isn't aware of what I'm thinking; may be she isn't.
I count her footsteps away as if it is the only sound that resonates through the beating of my heart.
I hate romance, found its waves, overwhelming and frustrating, but I love her more than I should and more than I ever wanted to love anyone.
Olivia walks back into the room, her skirt swaying haphazardly by her legs, her eyes bright, a teacup balanced in one hand, and the coffee cup that she'd handpainted for me in the other.
She knows that it's late and that I never cared for caffeinated drinks, and I know that the coffee is decaf anyway.
Olivia stops in front of me, and her eyes twinkle while she smiles.
I take the cup from her, half smearing the lipstick that she'd carefully painted onto my lips earlier in the evening as I take a sip, and wonder why she has to be so sweet to the very fiber of her being, to her innermost core.
It's sickening, but my heart cries out for more; I can't taste the coffee past the aching in my chest, past the reminder of my love for her, and even though I hate smiling, I smile anyway at her.
She half leans up to play with my hair, still desperately needing a shower to ease it into the soft perfection that she likes, and I wonder why she treasures tea this late or why she bothers to love me, a woman with no redeeming traits.
Olivia would grumble some bizarre phrase that had to be a lie with a smile on her face and press closer to me, reminding me that she loves me for some ill conceived reason.
I let her play with my hair before I realize that she'd find it much easier to reach if I sat down; she sits beside me.
She's already talking a mile a minute about something that blew her mind today, and I lean closer despite the tiredness that clings to my eyelids and listen to her, really take it in, because I can't imagine this lasting forever. Not when, she gently takes my hand in hers or when she presses just close enough to kiss both of my cheeks.
I can never imagine her loving me forever or loving me enough for each evening, curled up side by side, her hands carefully tracing every tired curl in my hair and memorizing the shade of my eyes like she really has to know for some big test in the morning or talking in her sleep so much as she cuddles me before my tiredness desperately catches up to me, and I fall asleep.
I can't keep up with her steady pace of life, of never looking back on the bad times, never letting hurt control her; Olivia moves through the world like its a still pond while I still drown in it.
She takes my hand and tries to lift me up, make me feel more free, more at her level, and she for whatever reason, loves my broken self, and tries to put up a tent to guard me from the rain and keep me by her side.
Olivia loves me eve.n though she shouldn't