Blue eyes like ice, clear skies, crystalline pools. His hair is golden like precious metal, the sun, the flowers I love so dearly. Beautiful, but I've never told him that. He's all rough around the edges like unpolished diamond. His smirk is absolutely infuriating, though his smile strikes me like a bullet. Like a disease, it poisons my core until I find the blood rushing to my cheeks and my lips parting in an expression of...joy?
His laugh digs into my brain and makes a spot for itself because it, like him, is always where it doesn't belong. Looking at him splits me in two: I want to wrap my hands around his neck and watch him turn blue, but I want to press my lips to his and watch him turn red. Colors...my life needs more of them. He is color. He is my color, and I don't know if I want to destroy him or protect him. A rose with a stem covered in thorns. Everytime I try to claim him, I get hurt.
He gets under my skin like a parasite. I hate him for being so astounding and very awful at the same time, but that's wrong, right? Because you shouldn't hate the ones you love — that's what I've been told. His orbs meet mine and they're glassy, lips pulled back in a primal sneer. I want to ask why he watches me with such disdain. I try to rest my hand on his shoulder gently: he's strong, but I've shattered lots of 'unbreakable' people in the past. He shakes me off and hisses at me, voice low and dangerous.
Though I know this tone and how to deal with it, this is bigger than a little stint. I question him with gentle curiousity and he will have none of it, shoving me with both hands. He claims that I don't give a damn about him, that I never considered him, that I don't even love him. Words that cut deep like knifes, but when he speaks again, his sentences taper off at the end. It's mysterious, but there is sureness in these unfinished threats. His calculating tone reigns scarier than its predecessors. This is the side of him that no one really sees and even I don't know what do with it. I fear not him, but the thought of loneliness.
I grab his wrist with a firm, unrelenting grip. I try to say all the things I think lovers would to combat the voice that tells me I want to hurt him, because I don't...I want him to stay. If he leaves, my world returns to the dull grays I've grown to despise. I beg, though my pride suffers.
He yanks roughly to try to escape me and I tighten my grasp. He curses at me, though I don't waver. I can't stop the threats that escape my lips, rising from the venom within myself. I don't stop squeezing his hand until I hear peculiar crunching sounds. Bones are like twigs to me, though I release the moment I see the pain register in the eyes that my heart longs for. What do I do? Words might repair...but the English and Russian swim around and swirl together violently like food in a blender. He's walking away and I don't know my course of action anymore.
Everytime I think we're fine, I remember I'll never be fine. And why should I ever hope for such a thing when my insides are hallow from the soul I don't posses and my chest doesn't beat because for whom would it do so? The blue, the red, the yellow: they fade to monochrome as he walks away. The sunflowers in my room are just colorless mush now that my real sunflower has abandoned me, like all others. Vodka burns my throat on the way down, though it can't relight the fire within and I feel eternally cold as I always have. I'm so alone, but for a man who leaves only destruction in his wake, isn't this what I deserve?