MISSING JOEY
By Moonshadow- 1999
He tried not to think of her. The way her hair fell over the curves of her cheek when she bent her head in thought, , the graceful and girlish line of her throat, the one he had delicately kissed so many times, the way her face lit up when she was happy, the deep frown lines in her forehead when she was angry- the she-devil. Her scent on his pillowcase, known to him for years, familiar, yet different now. The marathon talkfests. Her impassioned opinions. The touch of her hand on his face.
And her eyes, God, how many volumes of unspoken words had shown out of her eyes. Once, they didn't even need to speak. He could just look at her and know what she was thinking, a shared unspoken joke or wry amusement, compassion and understanding, sometimes I am sorry, wait, sometimes wait, the time isn't right, sometimes it was love: I need to be with you, I am yours, I love you, you are my one and only. A special look he naively had thought would be, could only be, for him. She gave that look to the other one now, the other boy. He had seen her look at him, the other guy, that special way that he had thought was his alone. He wanted to yell and run to her and grab her away from the other boy and cry his frustration: how can you look at him that way, the way you looked at me? How can you give that look to another? But of course, he did nothing, could not do anything. She was not his. And he was older now.
Sometimes he wanted to die.
She was fiesty and insecure, pragmatic and whimsical, creative, angry and loving and thoughtful, and hurtful, and persnickity and stubborn and sweet and independent, and oh so smart, and still young, and he loved all of it, the whole package, the bad along with the good. The mystery and the familiarity. She could stand up to a bully and hold her own in a heated argument, but when he held her in his arms and kissed her she was like heaven and he melted with the love and happiness and desire and tenderness he felt for her. She had been his best friend for so many years that it was with surprise and amazement and no small bit of trepidation that on one eventful evening when they were fifteen that a bridge was crossed and they had become more than just friends. A kiss. Just a kiss. A sweet and wonderful kiss full of promise and wonder and possibility. And nothing had been the same since. Just like she had predicted. Somehow, she had known. Much more than he.
Now, everything was different. She wanted to be with the other one, says she needs him, that other boy, or loves him or who knows what. Once he had known her, or thought that he had. He had told her once, when he was holding her close, that he knew everything about her, her hopes and dreams and fears. She had replied that what he didn't know about her would fill a book. He could not imagine it then. Now, he didn't need to imagine it. It was a reality.
He knew that at least for a while she had been happy with him. But she was restless, impatient to be and do more than just what she had been and done for so many years, to not be just the same. He hadn't been able to do that for her, satisfy her need to not just be the same girl. The other guy did. She felt freer with him- with that other boy- more challenged and not the same and he saw it in her face when she looked at the other one. The one who now kissed those impossibly sweet lips and saw the heat rise in her face when she was angry, and just was with her, happy even when doing nothing. She was that kind of girl to be with. You couldn't help but be happy even if nothing special was going on, happy even when you weren't happy.
He had tried to encourage and support her, but she had told him that she felt she lived in his shadow. He could not understand this. To him, he felt like she lived under his heart. She had told him she needed to do some growing up, of finding herself, without him, that she felt she was too much a part of him and his life. What could he say to that? She was a part of his life and of him. This made him happy.
It made her unhappy.
He didn't understand it then, but he did more now. He hadn't known how stong the need was in her to experience life outside of him and to find herself through other people, even if it meant giving up the special relationship with him that had been so much a part of her life, their lives. A relationship he knew had been good and kind and deep and sometimes wonderfully amazing and magical. It hurt him to think about their lost relationship.
He missed her.
He had been missing her for awhile, even before the other boy captured her heart. He had not shared their special relationship for over a year. He had left her by herself when she had pushed him away one too many times, fighting against him, rejecting his love, hurting him. He knew she had felt bad about causing him pain. She hadn't meant to. But he had feared that her need and care, and yes love, for him could not overcome her need to be apart from him as well. He could not get lost in her again, could not again feel her emotions through her eyes, enjoy her intelligence and spirit, make that connection with her , and then have her compelling need to be apart from him overtake her. And she would leave him. Again. Not intending to or planning to, almost against her own wishes, she would still go.
Because she had to. Even if it hurt him.
Sometimes life stank.
So he tried not to think of her, and of what she might be doing with the other guy. Things he had thought, hoped, wished, prayed, he would be doing. Some day. With her. Slowly. When the time was right. Lovely, tender, silken, breathless, romantic, carnal, wanton things. When they were older. When she was ready. Maybe even when they were a lot older. Good or not. It hadn't really mattered as long as he was with her.
Even though to touch her and hold her and kiss her had been excruciatingly important and exciting , it was more than just that. It had always been more. Because it was with her, the special one, and not another. And he could watch her lovely and expressive face, and tease her and make her laugh, and taste her mouth, and sometimes they would be serious, and sometimes sensuous, and sometimes she would just look at him and he would know she was both the best friend he had always known and the special girl, a young woman , who now made his heart beat strong and his body glow with warmth . Familiar and close, exotic and mysterious, down to earth and unearthly. Dear to his heart. The one he still loved. The one he tried not to think about after all this time.
The one he tried not to think about.
Still.
(*posted 3/6/02. Look for more Moonshadow fiction to be posted in upcoming weeks)
By Moonshadow- 1999
He tried not to think of her. The way her hair fell over the curves of her cheek when she bent her head in thought, , the graceful and girlish line of her throat, the one he had delicately kissed so many times, the way her face lit up when she was happy, the deep frown lines in her forehead when she was angry- the she-devil. Her scent on his pillowcase, known to him for years, familiar, yet different now. The marathon talkfests. Her impassioned opinions. The touch of her hand on his face.
And her eyes, God, how many volumes of unspoken words had shown out of her eyes. Once, they didn't even need to speak. He could just look at her and know what she was thinking, a shared unspoken joke or wry amusement, compassion and understanding, sometimes I am sorry, wait, sometimes wait, the time isn't right, sometimes it was love: I need to be with you, I am yours, I love you, you are my one and only. A special look he naively had thought would be, could only be, for him. She gave that look to the other one now, the other boy. He had seen her look at him, the other guy, that special way that he had thought was his alone. He wanted to yell and run to her and grab her away from the other boy and cry his frustration: how can you look at him that way, the way you looked at me? How can you give that look to another? But of course, he did nothing, could not do anything. She was not his. And he was older now.
Sometimes he wanted to die.
She was fiesty and insecure, pragmatic and whimsical, creative, angry and loving and thoughtful, and hurtful, and persnickity and stubborn and sweet and independent, and oh so smart, and still young, and he loved all of it, the whole package, the bad along with the good. The mystery and the familiarity. She could stand up to a bully and hold her own in a heated argument, but when he held her in his arms and kissed her she was like heaven and he melted with the love and happiness and desire and tenderness he felt for her. She had been his best friend for so many years that it was with surprise and amazement and no small bit of trepidation that on one eventful evening when they were fifteen that a bridge was crossed and they had become more than just friends. A kiss. Just a kiss. A sweet and wonderful kiss full of promise and wonder and possibility. And nothing had been the same since. Just like she had predicted. Somehow, she had known. Much more than he.
Now, everything was different. She wanted to be with the other one, says she needs him, that other boy, or loves him or who knows what. Once he had known her, or thought that he had. He had told her once, when he was holding her close, that he knew everything about her, her hopes and dreams and fears. She had replied that what he didn't know about her would fill a book. He could not imagine it then. Now, he didn't need to imagine it. It was a reality.
He knew that at least for a while she had been happy with him. But she was restless, impatient to be and do more than just what she had been and done for so many years, to not be just the same. He hadn't been able to do that for her, satisfy her need to not just be the same girl. The other guy did. She felt freer with him- with that other boy- more challenged and not the same and he saw it in her face when she looked at the other one. The one who now kissed those impossibly sweet lips and saw the heat rise in her face when she was angry, and just was with her, happy even when doing nothing. She was that kind of girl to be with. You couldn't help but be happy even if nothing special was going on, happy even when you weren't happy.
He had tried to encourage and support her, but she had told him that she felt she lived in his shadow. He could not understand this. To him, he felt like she lived under his heart. She had told him she needed to do some growing up, of finding herself, without him, that she felt she was too much a part of him and his life. What could he say to that? She was a part of his life and of him. This made him happy.
It made her unhappy.
He didn't understand it then, but he did more now. He hadn't known how stong the need was in her to experience life outside of him and to find herself through other people, even if it meant giving up the special relationship with him that had been so much a part of her life, their lives. A relationship he knew had been good and kind and deep and sometimes wonderfully amazing and magical. It hurt him to think about their lost relationship.
He missed her.
He had been missing her for awhile, even before the other boy captured her heart. He had not shared their special relationship for over a year. He had left her by herself when she had pushed him away one too many times, fighting against him, rejecting his love, hurting him. He knew she had felt bad about causing him pain. She hadn't meant to. But he had feared that her need and care, and yes love, for him could not overcome her need to be apart from him as well. He could not get lost in her again, could not again feel her emotions through her eyes, enjoy her intelligence and spirit, make that connection with her , and then have her compelling need to be apart from him overtake her. And she would leave him. Again. Not intending to or planning to, almost against her own wishes, she would still go.
Because she had to. Even if it hurt him.
Sometimes life stank.
So he tried not to think of her, and of what she might be doing with the other guy. Things he had thought, hoped, wished, prayed, he would be doing. Some day. With her. Slowly. When the time was right. Lovely, tender, silken, breathless, romantic, carnal, wanton things. When they were older. When she was ready. Maybe even when they were a lot older. Good or not. It hadn't really mattered as long as he was with her.
Even though to touch her and hold her and kiss her had been excruciatingly important and exciting , it was more than just that. It had always been more. Because it was with her, the special one, and not another. And he could watch her lovely and expressive face, and tease her and make her laugh, and taste her mouth, and sometimes they would be serious, and sometimes sensuous, and sometimes she would just look at him and he would know she was both the best friend he had always known and the special girl, a young woman , who now made his heart beat strong and his body glow with warmth . Familiar and close, exotic and mysterious, down to earth and unearthly. Dear to his heart. The one he still loved. The one he tried not to think about after all this time.
The one he tried not to think about.
Still.
(*posted 3/6/02. Look for more Moonshadow fiction to be posted in upcoming weeks)