Monday, May 7, 2012
She lies (what seems like) miles away but even as I drift into sleep, I feel her body inch closer. There's a knocking at my heart and I awake to see her hair creeping onto the pillow where I'm trying to forget about her. All attempts crushed when I hear her breathing from below the covers and I feel my defences melt away. In her state of sleep she pulls the covers down to reveal the feline curves of her mouth. In that second I want to put my lips on hers, steal back all the breaths she robbed from me and then happily trade them back for another kiss. But I can't. I can't kiss her. I can't tell her that I want to know everything about her. I can't tell her that while she's talking to me about another, all I can think of is how perfectly her eyebrows sit above her shallow-water blue eyes, the way a boat floats atop the gentle waves close to shore. And how I want to run my fingers down the side of her face to see if it's as perfect as it looks. I can't tell her that when I see her crying, I want to lay her in bed and place her head over my heart. How I know she can't possibly want me or like me or need me, but how I convince myself she does, just to fall asleep at night. How I notice everyone else in the room watching her and how I hate that they got to share that moment, they got to soak her in. Mostly I'd like to tell her how I'd try anything to steal her heart but I don't trust myself with it. So as I watch her chest lift and drop while she sleeps, I rest my head back on my pillow, close my eyes and try remind myself that I don't deserve her. I never will.