(no subject)
I can still smell her. The spice of cigarettes have settled on my scalp. I am playing with the fire in my hair. I run my fingers through to put it out. I can't make her go away. I wanted to touch her and never stop, never let go, but there were no reasons now. I needed reasons, and she no longer weighted me down from the ceiling. She was not my child and I was not her balloon. I deflated while she slept. I stared up from the floor to the place I had been and it was unrecognizable. Where had I been? The sleeping body next to me was untouchable. Eyes could only pretend to be hands. These were not my hills and valleys, my meadows, my rivers. They were nobody's. She was unconquerable. I wanted to wash over her like a flood and carry away the loose dirt and leaves just to say I had a part of her. And as I observed nature's perfection, I realized my own human inadequacy.
I'm playing with fire.
I'm playing with fire.