'Do you hate me?'
The words roll off of my tongue without any command from my mind.
I stare across the table at him and his confused face, the one I adore so much.
He's wondering why I asked.
However, I'm not sure why either.
He dyed his hair last week, jet black, my favourite.
His tormented eyes surrounded by red veins, they appear a perfect sapphire.
As if it didn't already take all the self restraint I possessed,
Not to throw myself at his feet, at our every meeting and beg him to fuck me right there.
Oh no, he wouldn't though.
He's a man of virtue and character.
Why? Why does he have to be a closed book?
I wonder what he's thinking.
Perhaps, he does hate me, what would I do then?
Our peculiar relationship had always made me wonder.
We wouldn't date, it would breech the moral and legal boundaries of life.
Yet, our friendship could never be like others.
I was always trying, unlike with my other friends.
I wanted him and had to work for it, although he seemed effortless.
But, now I question myself.
Why would I even ask?
He can't control the way he looks and the fact that girls become lustful at his sight.
He can't help that he has an understanding of people, before they even speak.
He is the way he is, as I am the way I am.
Maybe I just hate myself.
I'm not extraordinary or spectacular.
I can't relate or understand people well, despite my effort.
I guess the true question is not, 'does he hate me?' but,
'Why me?' of all the girls he could have,
'Why do you spend time with me?'
He knows, as well as I, that we can't be together.
He looks up to stare me in the eyes,
The perfection of his face is painful to look at.
He opens his mouth, my hands clench.
How I would love to lean across that table and slip my tongue into his mouth,
No words would be needed then.
I focus on his words, although simple and clear.
'No, I don't hate you. I love you.'