Beautiful things must come to an end.
It's why I cherish the warmth: seeping from your skin and melding with mine as we lay in bed, our legs tangled, and you caging me in your arms; in your eyes, blazing and red and captivating, when you trap me with your gaze as you lean closer, the distance between us diminishing till there's not even air; from your mouth, our lips clashing, our teeth knocking, and you stealing the air straight out of my lungs; from your callous hands, fingers trailing every inch of my exposed skin, then intertwining with mine when I let go of the sheets, and you try to be gentle, but your hands are gripping too tightly, yet I still search for the strength to squeeze back; in your voice when you say my name, breath tickling my ear, and I keep in memory every inflection when you call out again, and again, and again, and one last time with a press against my lips, bidding me good night, and I let exhaustion succumb me to sleep; again, in your voice, lacing your words when I hear them as I drift between dreams and awareness, and you say those words—and for years they've held the truth, but now you struggle for them not to be a lie, and how I want you to still mean them—with a kiss on my forehead, bidding me goodbye, and I plead for sleep to drag me away; and on these bed sheets when I wake, and it's all that I have left of you.
It's why I cherish the cold: from the drop sliding down my cheek—it's the rain but not really, because the sun's rays filter through the curtains and the storm is yet to come, though one is brewing inside me; in the air when the rain finally descends, but I'm out of tears, my eyes stinging red and my throat running dry, so nature continues the symphony I started on its own, and I listen, with the sheets draped over my tired shoulders and the tremors running down my shoulder blades; on the glass as I trail my fingers on the surface, seeing my reflection, and the rain pelting against the window is in sync with my frantic heartbeat when I see through the fog and you're by the gate with someone else; seeping to my heart when the smile is creeping on your lips, but it's not meant for me; from the drops that fall on my cheeks—this time, it's the rain—as I open the window, and the sheets become sodden; turning gelid when the autumn air whirls in, and I shout your name, but you don't hear the hurt staining my voice because I don't have one, yet you turn your head as if you're drawn, and your red eyes widen when they land on me, alarmed; again, in the air I breathe as I lean closer to the edge, gravity and heartache luring me down to you; in my lungs when the breath is stolen from me and gravity pulls harshly, and you shout my name, but the rushing wind snatches the word before they reach my ears, and I see a glimpse of your beautiful, horrified face before the sudden black drags me away; and on my skin when I sleep, and it's all you have left of me.
It's why I cherish you but not myself.