I've just finished university, and am currently milling about trying to decide precisely what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. I don't think I wrote a word of fiction during the last academic year, and it's proving a little tricky to get back into the swing of. So, while I'm trying to come to terms with being a real, proper adult, I've been having a dabble with the writing lark; much more fun than trying to find a job.
Enjoy!
Sometimes, I wish we were still strangers.
Wish I didn't know the slide of skin on skin. Of tongues on salt, or hands in hair.
Hand in hand. An arm around shoulders. How innocently this all started – or at least well intentioned.
I didn't know you then. Making you laugh was the prize of a game we hadn't agreed rules to. You laughed freely that night in the frigid summer's darkness – too stubborn to accept defeat in the unseasonable chill.
Sometimes, I wish I didn't know your laugh.
Wish I didn't know the beam of triumph. The smug smirks, or knowing glances.
It makes it all the more difficult to bear when the darkness rolls in. When there's nothing to pull a smile from you, just the dark brooding scowl.
It's the familiarity of you that makes it hurt so keenly when you vanish. When you're gone for days at a time, when I don't know where you are, what you're doing. When you're lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling - yet not here at all. When I look at you and for the life of me cannot fathom what you're thinking. And I'm not sure I want to.
Sometimes, I wish we were still strangers.
Though really, I suspect we are.