One day, I will be punished for my sins. Of this, I am sure.
But you smile at me with your lopsided grin, or you flop your tawny hair in front of your scar-laced forehead, and I go mad.
Your hands are magnificent. You chide me for staring too long at your hands, but they are purely carved works of the Gods. They speak of art and culture and worldly knowledge; if anyone should know these things, it's I. The curve of your fingers as they cradle a book, the oldest of your lovers, makes me ache with sin, Moony, surely you must know that by now. But, oh, the ever-brilliant Remus, the one who is so skilled and gifted with parchment and quill is ever-so lacking in matters of the heart.
You are logical, infallible; tax forms and button down shirts. You are elbow patches and thrift store slacks, the cracked monocle of sophistication. But you are so much more than literature and documentaries, don't you see?
You are wordly and well-read and as insecure as you are shy. You are rigidly polite, always graceful, and terrifically mischevious. You get a toothy grin when you're genuinely excited, and the way your brow furrows when you try to gather your words is proof you're trying to not be speechless. If you are reading while sprawled out or on your stomach, you are not to be disturbed, but if you have your legs crossed, you're fair game for conversation. On a scale of zero to one with one being perfect, you are a point-nine-five-eight, which rounds up to a one.
I try to tell you this, but all that I can muster is a grumble or a shoulder shrug. But you give me that smile, an unsure smile, and I know you understand what I'm saying.
Once you told me that love really must be blind to fall so mistakenly into your lap. I yelled that you were mental and then I kissed you.
But that's me. And, as full of myself as I claim to be, you know better. I'm loud and brash, uncouth and with an air of superiority, albeit slight. I ignore when I am upset, I pout when I am angry, and I lash out when I'm feeling particularly vulnerable.
But you don't ask me to change. And I wouldn't dare ask you; the Mona Lisa is falling apart, but she still smiles, no?
We are terrible for each other, and, yes, we are a disaster. But tell me you don't feel that rush. Tell me you don't bask in the glory of a really good rainstorm, one that could wash us away for forever. Tell me you don't sometimes wake from the moon and curl into yourself. I'd rather die terrified than live forever, Moony.