(no subject)
Those saccharine, sky blue eyes, pleading at me from under soft, springy brown curls.
That tan arm you wrap around my waist when we get a second to embrace.
Those thin pink lips that you seem to know are tempting me.
That soft red dusting your cheeks as I murmur a, “Missed you, sweetheart.”
The tautness of your body next to mine whenever I’m just a tad too close.
The marks on your skin, ink identical to mine, same place and same design.
The words that pour from your lips, gushing praise and sweetly bashful questions.
Those are the signs you’re mine. The signs that if I were to reach out and take you, you’d melt into my arms as spoken of in so many of those fairytales I used to believe in, before I got my heart broken and wrote my first song. The signs that you want what I want, need what I need, crave what I crave, and are simply as afraid as I am to follow through on your desire.
But that glint in your eyes when she comes back from the ladies’ room and sits close enough to touch.
That soft smirk playing around those same lips when she rests her head on your shoulder.
The way your fingers seem to fall perfectly into her hand and you wind them with hers.
The softness in your expression as she whispers, “I’m tired,” and yawns into your ear.
The way your entire figure seems to lean toward her whenever she’s near.
The shining silver band that wraps around your finger, so unworthy of such a sacred place.
The dismissive farewell you say to me just before you walk her out of the restaurant.
Those are the signs I’ve lost. We weren’t even in a real quarrel, she and I, and I’ve lost. You are hers, she is yours, and that’s what you want, need, crave. I never stood a chance placed versus her in your eyes. Whatever I’ve seen in the seconds before must be visions of pure fantasy.
*
I must not have control of my feet; they follow you without my consent, planting firmly in the doorway to the restaurant and prompting me to watch you half-carry her to the Hummer, slide her inside so gently it’s as though you fear she’s made of glass, and kiss her cheek with pure tenderness and devotion I never get to see, before you walk around the car and get in the other side.
You don’t look back once. There’s no “Bye, Vil, see you sometime in the next six months if we have time,” none of that. There’s just me backing back into the shadows and warmth of the restaurant while you take her home.
She’ll lie with you tonight, I know. While I’m tossing in the entirely too small bunk on our tour bus, you’ll be wrapped around her under clean sheets, whispering how much you adore her.
I guess she’s just that lucky.
***
Morbid, I know. And disturbingly realistic. Kind of bothers me a bit, actually, how unlike me this was. But it's my writing, and my writing frequently deviates from normalcy.
Leave me some love, sweethearts? Even if it's just to rant at me about how awful I am for writing it one sided. ;)
That tan arm you wrap around my waist when we get a second to embrace.
Those thin pink lips that you seem to know are tempting me.
That soft red dusting your cheeks as I murmur a, “Missed you, sweetheart.”
The tautness of your body next to mine whenever I’m just a tad too close.
The marks on your skin, ink identical to mine, same place and same design.
The words that pour from your lips, gushing praise and sweetly bashful questions.
Those are the signs you’re mine. The signs that if I were to reach out and take you, you’d melt into my arms as spoken of in so many of those fairytales I used to believe in, before I got my heart broken and wrote my first song. The signs that you want what I want, need what I need, crave what I crave, and are simply as afraid as I am to follow through on your desire.
But that glint in your eyes when she comes back from the ladies’ room and sits close enough to touch.
That soft smirk playing around those same lips when she rests her head on your shoulder.
The way your fingers seem to fall perfectly into her hand and you wind them with hers.
The softness in your expression as she whispers, “I’m tired,” and yawns into your ear.
The way your entire figure seems to lean toward her whenever she’s near.
The shining silver band that wraps around your finger, so unworthy of such a sacred place.
The dismissive farewell you say to me just before you walk her out of the restaurant.
Those are the signs I’ve lost. We weren’t even in a real quarrel, she and I, and I’ve lost. You are hers, she is yours, and that’s what you want, need, crave. I never stood a chance placed versus her in your eyes. Whatever I’ve seen in the seconds before must be visions of pure fantasy.
*
I must not have control of my feet; they follow you without my consent, planting firmly in the doorway to the restaurant and prompting me to watch you half-carry her to the Hummer, slide her inside so gently it’s as though you fear she’s made of glass, and kiss her cheek with pure tenderness and devotion I never get to see, before you walk around the car and get in the other side.
You don’t look back once. There’s no “Bye, Vil, see you sometime in the next six months if we have time,” none of that. There’s just me backing back into the shadows and warmth of the restaurant while you take her home.
She’ll lie with you tonight, I know. While I’m tossing in the entirely too small bunk on our tour bus, you’ll be wrapped around her under clean sheets, whispering how much you adore her.
I guess she’s just that lucky.
***
Morbid, I know. And disturbingly realistic. Kind of bothers me a bit, actually, how unlike me this was. But it's my writing, and my writing frequently deviates from normalcy.
Leave me some love, sweethearts? Even if it's just to rant at me about how awful I am for writing it one sided. ;)