I lie awake and try so hard not to think of you
PROSE
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I dream.
I dream of Him.
I dream of us being alone somewhere where noone can see or hear us. He asks how I am and I say fine. He pauses, puts a hand to my shoulder and forces eye contact upon me, as if he's looking inside me to my very core, but then breaks it and looks away. I don't know if he's making sure nobody is around or if he's looking anywhere but at me. "No," he states, his voice as whisper soft as if he's afraid of the Universe overhearing, "You're not fine. You can't be - it wouldn't be fair for you to be fine when I'm turning myself inside out every moment we're not together."
It's then that he looks down at me, for of course he is taller, and we lock eyes. He asks me to love him. He doesn't beg, but he pleads. He pleads with his eyes, his voice and his hand that slips down my arm to rest on mine. All it would take would be for him to lift a hand and brush the hair from my face, or to trace his thumb along my lips or for his palm to cup my cheek or chin - any of these and I'd be his, forever with no question. If he would just make the slightest movement, for him I would chase rainbows and I would lie and I would bleed. But he doesn't.
I can't control what he does or says. I can't script it, and so I have no idea how to act. How to react. So I panic and the moment is lost.
Even in my dreams I screw things up.
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I dream.
I dream of Him.
I dream of us being alone somewhere where noone can see or hear us. He asks how I am and I say fine. He pauses, puts a hand to my shoulder and forces eye contact upon me, as if he's looking inside me to my very core, but then breaks it and looks away. I don't know if he's making sure nobody is around or if he's looking anywhere but at me. "No," he states, his voice as whisper soft as if he's afraid of the Universe overhearing, "You're not fine. You can't be - it wouldn't be fair for you to be fine when I'm turning myself inside out every moment we're not together."
It's then that he looks down at me, for of course he is taller, and we lock eyes. He asks me to love him. He doesn't beg, but he pleads. He pleads with his eyes, his voice and his hand that slips down my arm to rest on mine. All it would take would be for him to lift a hand and brush the hair from my face, or to trace his thumb along my lips or for his palm to cup my cheek or chin - any of these and I'd be his, forever with no question. If he would just make the slightest movement, for him I would chase rainbows and I would lie and I would bleed. But he doesn't.
I can't control what he does or says. I can't script it, and so I have no idea how to act. How to react. So I panic and the moment is lost.
Even in my dreams I screw things up.