Hello, my name is Rose. Sometimes I write things, but inspiration is a bit fickle. Feedback is welcome. Appreciate ya.
When we kissed, he would never look at me. His eyes were always cast downward, and I understood why. We avoided different gazes. We were two of a kind. He was afraid to look at me, and I was afraid to see him. I never knew why everything was different with us. We never laughed, never gazed in adoration at each other, but somehow it was love. It was real, or at least my perception of it was real. Our hands were always loosely entwined, I didn’t dare to hold him tightly. His body did not scare me, nor his touch, nor his mind. It was the idea of getting so close to him that we became the same person, one being, and I would be alone again. I saw myself in him, but he was unable to relate to me. Perhaps our similarities were one-sided...
His name was a candle in the dark, his name was dust and molecules, his name was the best thing that ever came out of my mouth. I missed him even when he was with me, which was strange. It would make sense if I had some sort of fonder memory of him, of us, that I wished I could return to, but it had always been like this. Always been too fragile, always been too real. I missed a thing that never existed for either of us, and the missing was more of a reminiscent longing than anything else. I missed, I wanted normality. I wanted that apple-pie sensation of the ordinary and mundane. I could never have this, but neither could he. We were trapped in this, because the only other option was to be alone. I knew that, as long as I needed him, he wouldn’t go anywhere. He was devoted to me, in a childish, stupid way that I loved and abhorred.
He tasted unique, not fresh or sweet, but peppery and musty. He felt so fragile. I used to hold his head to my chest because I knew my heartbeat made him feel grounded. He would close his eyes and breathe in rhythmic, quiet gasps. His breath matched the twisting of my heart, and knowing that the air in my lungs was also in his own was a feeling as pure and vital as the blood flowing through the roots and corridors of my veins.