u/chaosidiot

It’s one of those weeks.

You get one of these weeks. When you can’t take your hands off me. I’m too intimidated to ask about it, but it’s like clockwork… and well, I like that week a lot. I like that you drag me everywhere and give what you want when you want it.

It’s my turn to have it, I think.

Every little thing triggers it. The way you push your hair out of your face and I see your hand close to your face, it’s enough to remind me. I saw you eating that parfait a little messily, getting it all over your lips the other day. You were doing that on purpose, right? You had to. You had to have known. I couldn’t stop staring, I had to stop speaking for a moment after trying to stutter my way through a goddamn sentence. I forgot what the hell I was going to say anyway.

And the sundress? The goddamn sundress. Pardon me for breathing the same air as you. I choked when I saw it, and you had the nerve to ask me if I was alright while I was fighting for my life… the enemy being an adventurous gulp of water that wanted to hike down the wrong pipe. I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that I can’t watch you walk away from me because my eyes wander, or when you stand right in front of me and look up at me with those pretty eyes, lips pulled back into a smile but it reminds me of —

I feel insane. That hasn’t even been the worst part.

I can’t even let you touch me anymore without getting a response. You play with my hair once and it’s what I think about for the rest of the day. Maybe the entire week. Do you know how many times I’ve had to use those stupid yoga breathing techniques my best friend likes to do just to calm myself down? You put your head on my shoulder while we were walking, both your arms cradling mine to your body and I felt like imploding and whooping in the streets.

You don’t even have to try.

Fuck, you don’t even have to ask, just give me the look you always do.

Let my hands read your body like those smart eyes like to do with all those books. For an entire day, all I’d like to do is spell my full name out with my tongue on your —

I'm supposed to be so much better than that, good God man, get a grip...

Ah, yes.

Maybe this is insanity.

It’s one of those weeks.

You get one of these weeks. When you can’t take your hands off me. I’m too intimidated to ask about it, but it’s like clockwork… and well, I like that week a lot. I like that you drag me everywhere and give what you want when you want it.

It’s my turn to have it, I think.

Every little thing triggers it. The way you push your hair out of your face and I see your hand close to your face, it’s enough to remind me. I saw you eating that parfait a little messily, getting it all over your lips the other day. You were doing that on purpose, right? You had to. You had to have known. I couldn’t stop staring, I had to stop speaking for a moment after trying to stutter my way through a goddamn sentence. I forgot what the hell I was going to say anyway.

And the sundress? The goddamn sundress. Pardon me for breathing the same air as you. I choked when I saw it, and you had the nerve to ask me if I was alright while I was fighting for my life… the enemy being an adventurous gulp of water that wanted to hike down the wrong pipe. I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that I can’t watch you walk away from me because my eyes wander, or when you stand right in front of me and look up at me with those pretty eyes, lips pulled back into a smile but it reminds me of —

I feel insane. That hasn’t even been the worst part.

I can’t even let you touch me anymore without getting a response. You play with my hair once and it’s what I think about for the rest of the day. Maybe the entire week. Do you know how many times I’ve had to use those stupid yoga breathing techniques my best friend likes to do just to calm myself down? You put your head on my shoulder while we were walking, both your arms cradling mine to your body and I felt like imploding and whooping in the streets.

You don’t even have to try.

Fuck, you don’t even have to ask, just give me the look you always do.

Let my hands read your body like those smart eyes like to do with all those books. For an entire day, all I’d like to do is spell my full name out with my tongue on your —

I'm supposed to be so much better than that, good God man, get a grip...

Ah, yes.

Maybe this is insanity.

It’s one of those weeks.

You get one of these weeks. When you can’t take your hands off me. I’m too intimidated to ask about it, but it’s like clockwork… and well, I like that week a lot. I like that you drag me everywhere and give what you want when you want it.

It’s my turn to have it, I think.

Every little thing triggers it. The way you push your hair out of your face and I see your hand close to your face, it’s enough to remind me. I saw you eating that parfait a little messily, getting it all over your lips the other day. You were doing that on purpose, right? You had to. You had to have known. I couldn’t stop staring, I had to stop speaking for a moment after trying to stutter my way through a goddamn sentence. I forgot what the hell I was going to say anyway.

And the sundress? The goddamn sundress. Pardon me for breathing the same air as you. I choked when I saw it, and you had the nerve to ask me if I was alright while I was fighting for my life… the enemy being an adventurous gulp of water that wanted to hike down the wrong pipe. I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that I can’t watch you walk away from me because my eyes wander, or when you stand right in front of me and look up at me with those pretty eyes, lips pulled back into a smile but it reminds me of —

I feel insane. That hasn’t even been the worst part.

I can’t even let you touch me anymore without getting a response. You play with my hair once and it’s what I think about for the rest of the day. Maybe the entire week. Do you know how many times I’ve had to use those stupid yoga breathing techniques my best friend likes to do just to calm myself down? You put your head on my shoulder while we were walking, both your arms cradling mine to your body and I felt like imploding and whooping in the streets.

You don’t even have to try.

Fuck, you don’t even have to ask, just give me the look you always do.

Let my hands read your body like those smart eyes like to do with all those books. For an entire day, all I’d like to do is spell my full name out with my tongue on your —

I'm supposed to be so much better than that, good God man, get a grip...

Ah, yes.

Maybe this is insanity.

I’ve never experienced anything like this. Never experienced someone like you before. 

My broad back is lying flat on a massive couch that feels emptier, bigger than usual. There’s someone missing from my arms. It’s not often I get lazy days; spending them with you would’ve made them better. Even lazier, softer, hazier. 

We probably would’ve never even left the bed. We’d be too busy talking and bantering. Or maybe… we’d be too busy doing something else? Sorry, sorry, just what you do to me, gorgeous. I’ll behave. For now. 

Or maybe you would’ve never left my bed. I would’ve gotten up and gotten you your coffee. Maybe that new Starbucks latte with ube in it? I remember you liked that. I’m smiling as I’m typing this up on my phone; good God, man, get a grip… 

…I wonder what you’re doing right now? 

It’s a random afternoon, but you’re probably working hard and trying to get stuff done. Or maybe you’re running errands? Or… maybe not? Maybe none of the above? It’s a weekend, maybe you’re out with your friends. That would be great. If you were with other people, so that I can stop thinking about how much I want to make you feel less alone. 

I’m trying not to ask and impose myself onto you all the time. You have your side of life too. Your independence too. But I crave you. Your presence, mind, wit, body — I crave all of it. Addicting. I always want to be with you, want to be around you, surround you, know every thought that goes on in that wicked clever mind. 

Doesn’t matter how many degrees I’ve got and what rooms I’ve been in, I feel like I can always learn more from you. Talk with you about anything. Work with you through everything. I love that you make me feel safe enough to ask the millions of questions that I’ve got. 

My special one. Do you know how many have tried and begged to see the man you speak to every day? The one that practically kneels at your feet and stumbles on his own feet to get to your personal space and goof off with you. 

Did you eat yet? It’s sunny where you are, what about the sunscreen? No headaches today, hopefully? Can I bug you? I want to ask about everything; tell me about your day, please? 

I wonder if you ever get tired with how much you’re running through my mind? 

I’ve never experienced anything like this. Never experienced someone like you before. 

My broad back is lying flat on a massive couch that feels emptier, bigger than usual. There’s someone missing from my arms. It’s not often I get lazy days; spending them with you would’ve made them better. Even lazier, softer, hazier. 

We probably would’ve never even left the bed. We’d be too busy talking and bantering. Or maybe… we’d be too busy doing something else? Sorry, sorry, just what you do to me, gorgeous. I’ll behave. For now. 

Or maybe you would’ve never left my bed. I would’ve gotten up and gotten you your coffee. Maybe that new Starbucks latte with ube in it? I remember you liked that. I’m smiling as I’m typing this up on my phone; good God, man, get a grip… 

…I wonder what you’re doing right now? 

It’s a random afternoon, but you’re probably working hard and trying to get stuff done. Or maybe you’re running errands? Or… maybe not? Maybe none of the above? It’s a weekend, maybe you’re out with your friends. That would be great. If you were with other people, so that I can stop thinking about how much I want to make you feel less alone. 

I’m trying not to ask and impose myself onto you all the time. You have your side of life too. Your independence too. But I crave you. Your presence, mind, wit, body — I crave all of it. Addicting. I always want to be with you, want to be around you, surround you, know every thought that goes on in that wicked clever mind. 

Doesn’t matter how many degrees I’ve got and what rooms I’ve been in, I feel like I can always learn more from you. Talk with you about anything. Work with you through everything. I love that you make me feel safe enough to ask the millions of questions that I’ve got. 

My special one. Do you know how many have tried and begged to see the man you speak to every day? The one that practically kneels at your feet and stumbles on his own feet to get to your personal space and goof off with you. 

Did you eat yet? It’s sunny where you are, what about the sunscreen? No headaches today, hopefully? Can I bug you? I want to ask about everything; tell me about your day, please? 

I wonder if you ever get tired with how much you’re running through my mind? 

There's times I forget how young we actually are. That we haven’t known each other for decades and been together for lifetimes.

I’ve heard of this artist before. Listened to him on the radio before, I’m sure. He’s especially nice on late night drives, the ones after business hours that I used to take often, but I’ve never heard of this particular song until I just… stumbled across it. Like I was meant to find it.

It’s a sound up your alley; a little retro, a lot of nostalgia.

I wonder if you would genuinely like this song or you’d like it because it reminds you of me. Or maybe you would like it because it reminds you of our tragedy. I just know you’d like it, though. Maybe you already know about it.

The other song, your song you told me about, it’s all about preserving memories. Of never forgetting. Of immortalizing me and whatever this was tenderly. Of immortalizing the Gray you know: the rare one that only you and so few have ever met. That’s one side of the tragedy.

This new song feels like a soundtrack to a horror movie made just for me.

Realizing just how much you meant to me but I’ve already run out of time to tell you.

Getting to the same destination when you’ve already left for another journey.

Stumbling to follow in your footsteps because you’re already too far away to see.

Reading the ending of the book you finished reading ages ago.

And it’s all wrapped up in such a sentimental beat; a velvet voice spitting the venomous truth of our ticking clock. So sweet and comforting, a hand caressing my face and not letting me look into the light. A hushed whisper telling me it’ll all be alright despite the end coming closer and closer.

It’s cruel in the best of ways. Just like you are.

What a beautifully tragic tale our two songs tell together, no?

The one that knows this mattered and seeks to remember it in all its beauty.

The one that feels everything and sees all the beauty after it’s all over.

Soon, I'll be out of time

In your home we see in our mind’s eyes, I see the life I think I would've loved the most. 

Early mornings, arms surrounding one from behind, a kiss on the neck and temple before swaying together like branches in the wind. Gone would be days where I miss you for days and weeks, and what takes their place instead is the inconvenience that sleep takes you away from me for mere hours.  

Pine trees, bonfire smoke, the fresh and open air—I wonder if you feel the same physical aches for a vision that lives in the beyond? Beyond my time, beyond your courage to ask me of more, beyond our touch. The sinking in my chest and sting in my stomach is constant, the pain blooms knowing my imagination is the closest I’ll ever have you permanently. You are simply beyond me.

It’s unbearable. A maddened scream wants to tear out of me every day. I want to crawl out of my skin and drag myself to wherever you are. Bleeding fingertips clinging onto the ground where you’ve stood. To almost grip onto you permanently and pull you to me, yet never having the courage to stand up to a world so much bigger than me. Your touch is a phantom. Your smiles and laughter are a poltergeist with a violence that strikes at my mind at all hours of the goddamn day. How do I prepare for a life after you? 

I wonder if you know? How much I want to give up for you, how much I want to throw everything away so I can be left kneeling at your mercy and beg for you to keep me, discover me, and figure me out like you have been. I want you to be the only one who has the pleasure and honor of laying me bare, of seeing even the weakest parts and still thinking they’re beautiful. Just like you have been. 

Everything you’ve been wanting to give me, I keep close to my chest. I guard it with trembling arms and gather as much as possible. I settle for this, for what you give me, and my entire chest twinges each time with the greed you know so well. 

I can never get close enough. I want to be with you until I can recognize you down to the molecule. 

I want to choose you. Let me choose you. Why can’t fate let me choose you?

Do you ache for it as much as I do? 

In your home we see in our mind’s eyes, I see the life I think I would've loved the most. 

Early mornings, arms surrounding one from behind, a kiss on the neck and temple before swaying together like branches in the wind. Gone would be days where I miss you for days and weeks, and what takes their place instead is the inconvenience that sleep takes you away from me for mere hours.  

Pine trees, bonfire smoke, the fresh and open air—I wonder if you feel the same physical aches for a vision that lives in the beyond? Beyond my time, beyond your courage to ask me of more, beyond our touch. The sinking in my chest and sting in my stomach is constant, the pain blooms knowing my imagination is the closest I’ll ever have you permanently. You are simply beyond me.

It’s unbearable. A maddened scream wants to tear out of me every day. I want to crawl out of my skin and drag myself to wherever you are. Bleeding fingertips clinging onto the ground where you’ve stood. To almost grip onto you permanently and pull you to me, yet never having the courage to stand up to a world so much bigger than me. Your touch is a phantom. Your smiles and laughter are a poltergeist with a violence that strikes at my mind at all hours of the goddamn day. How do I prepare for a life after you? 

I wonder if you know? How much I want to give up for you, how much I want to throw everything away so I can be left kneeling at your mercy and beg for you to keep me, discover me, and figure me out like you have been. I want you to be the only one who has the pleasure and honor of laying me bare, of seeing even the weakest parts and still thinking they’re beautiful. Just like you have been. 

Everything you’ve been wanting to give me, I keep close to my chest. I guard it with trembling arms and gather as much as possible. I settle for this, for what you give me, and my entire chest twinges each time with the greed you know so well. 

I can never get close enough. I want to be with you until I can recognize you down to the molecule. 

I want to choose you. Let me choose you. Why can’t fate let me choose you?

Do you ache for it as much as I do? 

Push and pull. 

You pull me to you. You pull and hold me so quietly to your chest with resigned hope marred by readied grief. Soft, reverent despite knowing that it all has to end soon. 

I push. In so many directions. Pushing back against the rest of my world so this all continues. Pushing through what I can’t talk about. Pushing you away; putting you at a safer distance. I don’t want to hurt you more than I already have. More than I already will. 

We’re two sides of the same coin. Couldn’t have been more different, couldn’t have been more similar.

These days, in my mind, I always see us sitting at opposite ends of the table. You’re always watching me with those eyes. Those kind eyes that tell me you understand. That you would be there no matter what. When I get worried or scared, you tell me that I could always run to you. Smiles shouldn’t be an extension of melancholy, yet here we are. 

I’m looking back at you. I don’t think I could ever look away in the first place. I wonder what you see? 

You see everything, don’t you? 

You read lost languages as though you were alive when they were conceived. 

You see the way my chest sinks through my face, an unseen enemy striking and attacking, raiding me of any calm. You see the frayed ends, not of the fabric on me, but the pressures that unravel my mind and take me from you even when you’re in front of me. You see the tears. 

You’re so calm. I see you’re so steady. Constant as you pick me apart and consume me with just your gaze, disrupting my focus. A distraction to the very end. A comfort till demise. 

Look at that. 

The stone-cold wall reduces to a miserable sod, and the one who feels so much becomes a hopeful, unwavering beacon. 

You pull me to feel. I push you to want for more. 

Our push and pull.  

Push and pull. 

You pull me to you. You pull and hold me so quietly to your chest with resigned hope marred by readied grief. Soft, reverent despite knowing that it all has to end soon. 

I push. In so many directions. Pushing back against the rest of my world so this all continues. Pushing through what I can’t talk about. Pushing you away; putting you at a safer distance. I don’t want to hurt you more than I already have. More than I already will. 

We’re two sides of the same coin. Couldn’t have been more different, couldn’t have been more similar.

These days, in my mind, I always see us sitting at opposite ends of the table. You’re always watching me with those eyes. Those kind eyes that tell me you understand. That you would be there no matter what. When I get worried or scared, you tell me that I could always run to you. Smiles shouldn’t be an extension of melancholy, yet here we are. 

I’m looking back at you. I don’t think I could ever look away in the first place. I wonder what you see? 

You see everything, don’t you? 

You read lost languages as though you were alive when they were conceived. 

You see the way my chest sinks through my face, an unseen enemy striking and attacking, raiding me of any calm. You see the frayed ends, not of the fabric on me, but the pressures that unravel my mind and take me from you even when you’re in front of me. You see the tears. 

You’re so calm. I see you’re so steady. Constant as you pick me apart and consume me with just your gaze, disrupting my focus. A distraction to the very end. A comfort till demise. 

Look at that. 

The stone-cold wall reduces to a miserable sod, and the one who feels so much becomes a hopeful, unwavering beacon. 

You pull me to feel. I push you to want for more. 

Push and pull.  

Push and pull.

You pull me to you. You pull and hold me so quietly to your chest with resigned hope marred by readied grief. Soft, reverent despite knowing that it all has to end soon.

I push. In so many directions. Pushing back against the rest of my world so this all continues. Pushing through what I can’t talk about. Pushing you away; putting you at a safer distance. I don’t want to hurt you more than I already have. More than I already will.

We’re two sides of the same coin. Couldn’t have been more different, couldn’t have been more similar.

These days, in my mind, I always see us sitting at opposite ends of the table. You’re always watching me with those eyes. Those kind eyes that tell me you understand. That you would be there no matter what. When I get worried or scared, you tell me that I could always run to you. Smiles shouldn’t be an extension of melancholy, yet here we are.

I’m looking back at you. I don’t think I could ever look away in the first place. I wonder what you see?

You see everything, don’t you?

You read lost languages as though you were alive when they were conceived.

You see the way my chest sinks through my face, an unseen enemy striking and attacking, raiding me of any calm. You see the frayed ends, not of the fabric on me, but the pressures that unravel my mind and take me from you even when you’re in front of me. You see the tears.

You’re so calm. I see you’re so steady. Constant as you pick me apart and consume me with just your gaze, disrupting my focus. A distraction to the very end. A comfort till demise.

Look at that.

The stone-cold wall reduces to a miserable sod, and the one who feels so much becomes a hopeful, unwavering beacon.

You pull me to feel. I push you to want for more.

Our push and pull.

A lot. 

This is going to be less flattering and more concerning, actually. 

Some would call it obsession. 

I call it… exploring and collecting data from an unexplored dimension. 

Did you think this was going to be cute? Oh, darling. You're going to regret asking. I can't even tell you my full truth. You'd run from me if I ever sent such thoughts into the open air. 

You haven't got a clue. You know how thorough I get in my research. 

You're inescapable to me. You overwhelm me with data. There's so much to process at all times, and I desperately, frantically hoard as much as I can. Like the bloody sun, you follow me around even when we're continents apart, still blinding me and making me feel warm. Your heat is abundant, yet somehow I always need to soak up more. 

And in the night, you turn into the moon. Soft, glowing, and the only one I can see in the dark. Comforting and calm, your gravity commands the tides and flow of my mind. But you're so greedy… or I'm too generous, and you direct all the currents back to you. 

As if it couldn't get any worse, my thoughts about you outnumber the stars. All of them are beautiful, even if some cause me to implode. They span a galaxy, and I think about everything from your skin on mine to the little creatures you see on your walks. They all swirl within me, a cosmos that makes alternate universes my imagination dips into when you're missing from me. 

You make me feel alien to myself. A creature so lost, so foreign to what the ground feels like after soaring in the high your voice, thoughts, and presence alone give me. I've landed on a strange planet and I don't know if it'll destroy me or become my new home. 

You've become everything as I know it. From the water I drink to the food I consume, I see you, hear you, feel you. You've become every atom and molecule that animates me. 

You have no idea how I've crafted my atmosphere to resemble you. An invisible shield and force that I carry with me wherever I go. 

I couldn't live without it. It's necessary for me to breathe, you see? 

So, again, you asked how much I think about you? 

Perhaps I'd like to change my answer. 

I don't think about you at all. 

You are already a world with life that simply lives within me. 

"Gray, you’ll catch a cold. Come out of there.”

“Gray, you’ll get sick. Put on a coat.”

“Gray, the rain will ruin your hair and we can’t have that.”

You knew how I grew up. I could never say too much, and you never pressed me for details, but you put together the picture of why I am the way that I am. Always unimpressed, presentable, cold. A stick up my ass, perhaps Red would tell you if you ever met him.

The skies were dreary, yet you didn’t look as inconvenienced as I did. No creases on that pretty face as you looked up at the drab storm clouds, no knitted brows as the wind blew your hair into your face. In an attempt to be helpful, I try and help you with your hair and my hands—never clumsy, you would know that—accidentally pile more of your hair onto your face. Oh God, I cringe and chuckle at myself now as I remember it; I was muttering apologies at you like I had kicked your dog.

But you laughed again. I was helpless to the grin you put on my face. Hell, your face makes me smile even now as I remember that stupidly wet and windy day. Just plain content, with even a slight hint of delight coloring your cheeks.

“You’re going to get sick,” I tried to say while pulling my umbrella out. Your hand stops me. So impractical, yet I let it happen. That’s our pattern, isn’t it? Just a little more adventure, a little more fun, life still goes on and my entire system, contrary to what I’ve been raised on, doesn’t fall apart.

“Nah, nah, nah, c’mon! Haven’t done this in a while, it’ll be fun, dude.” You looked so bright, I forgot the sun wasn’t out for a moment.

I could never read a romance novel. Could never watch a romance movie without grimacing and coiling inwards, practically barking at Red to turn the damn thing off—not like I'd ever put one on in the first place.

But I do know now what it’s all like. I get it now. Why people like those cheesy scenes. Why people cry at fake fights and tragedies on a screen. Why those lines exist and are written as they are. I told myself love was stupid and I’d never fall into the foolish shit that love made someone do.

Yet there we were.

And I was so damn happy to be there with you.

You grab my hand and pull me onto the empty part of the sidewalk. You do a funny little two-step dance thing, and I can’t help but look around because what the hell are you doing? You look so silly, but I’m already laughing and joining in before I can stop it.

Dancing in the rain. I’m living through a goddamn cliché and I can see why it is the way it is now.

I owe Red an apology. No wonder he likes the romance stuff.

I might too.

Gritted teeth, the heat pours from the inside-out.

I should be infuriated, hiding something much deeper under the delighted grins and hearty laughs that spring from my chest.

You’re funny, aren’t you?

Till the rising hours of the morning, you did nothing but say the most outrageous things. Under your breath, whispered into my ear, in passing while a hand trails at my collar. Your eyes are so sweet while you tell me with a smile what you'd want to do to me. What you want me to do to you.

Who the hell do you think you are? Someone who can get away with this shit? Someone who can be so insolent, arrogant, and shameless?

Well, yes. You're exactly right.

That is who you are. Who you became. From the very beginning, aiming for the best and keeping it.

Fuck, you're so right.

… And that's exactly why I sat through the night, back straight and everything rigid, heat flowing through my body. Everything. My jaw is clenched tight, wishing I could sink my teeth somewhere else. You're so pale, I wonder what colors the marks would take this time. I want to leave bruises again—my hands on your hips even when I’m not in the same room.

Gasps of shock, smiles of amusement, I want to see every pretty face you can make. We’d be a tangle, a mess neither could let go from. Or maybe that’s just you clinging onto me? Ah, I’m sorry, I can’t even fake being nonchalant anymore. I just know it would be me unable to give you any space.

It’s just what you do to me.

So… shall we make a movie in front of my full-length mirrors?

I know you smiled at that, gorgeous. You love the idiotic jokes. I learn quick, anything and everything about your mind… and body, of course.

Come on, don’t make me plead harder. I don’t have any more shame to prevent me from doing so at the moment.

Join me in bed already, you brat.

Please?

You called me pathetic.

The floor of my apartment is cold on my knees. The air is chilly, but that’s not what the goosebumps are blooming from. The smooth leather of your heels caresses my fingertips as I take them off you.

You make my bed look like a throne, cotton sheets to smooth marble, the light from my lamp a crown.

You called me pathetic.

I could only grin up at you. I agree.

Your teasing smile makes my spine straighten. I wonder if you can hear my pulse hammering, hands fumbling because I'm not looking where I should be.

So what?

So what if I want to take your heels off you before you take my bed? So what if I sleep on the couch if you’ve even had a sip of liquor? So what if I make you breakfast before I head off to my meetings?

Shall I show you how much more pathetic I can be?

That I stare at your discarded shirt in my hands the morning after, and for a moment, I have to bat away at the animal that howls to sniff it?

That I purposely stand behind you when you speak with someone when we go out, so that they know where your home is?

Have I mentioned that I spray my cologne in the air and on myself right before you come back, and touch you as soon as I can so the smell lingers in your skin and hair?

How much do you want me to confess? Have you got hours on your hands to hear them all?

My acceptance of what you've done to me is quick. You picture a certain man at times, when you get into one of your moods. I know you adore me as I am, but can you blame me for wanting to fulfill your needs? Perhaps every one of them. I know I can be him. Any one of them. In fact, I can be better.

You've never had someone like me, remember? I'm the only one who can do this for you. The only one who begs to be like this for you.

I've learned what you're doing to me. I'll allow it.

What did we always say? No use dwelling and crying when you can either solve it or enjoy it.

This isn't a problem; therefore I have nothing to solve. What option does that leave me with? Ah… right… the other one. The better one.

Look me in the eyes. Ask me. Tell me.

How much more pathetic do you want me to be?

You called me pathetic.

The floor of my apartment is cold on my knees. The air is chilly, but that’s not what the goosebumps are blooming from. The smooth leather of your heels caresses my fingertips as I take them off you.

You make my bed look like a throne, cotton sheets to smooth marble, the light from my lamp a crown.

You called me pathetic.

I could only grin up at you. I agree.

Your teasing smile makes my spine straighten. I wonder if you can hear my pulse hammering, hands fumbling because I'm not looking where I should be.

So what?

So what if I want to take your heels off you before you take my bed? So what if I sleep on the couch if you’ve even had a sip of liquor? So what if I make you breakfast before I head off to my meetings?

Shall I show you how much more pathetic I can be?

That I stare at your discarded shirt in my hands the morning after, and for a moment, I have to bat away at the animal that howls to sniff it?

That I purposely stand behind you when you speak with someone when we go out, so that they know where your home is?

Have I mentioned that I spray my cologne right before you come back, and touch you as soon as I can so the smell lingers in your skin and hair?

How much do you want me to confess? Have you got hours on your hands to hear them all?

My acceptance of what you've done to me is quick. You picture a certain man at times, when you get into one of your moods. I know you adore me as I am, but can you blame me for wanting to fulfill your needs? Perhaps every one of them. I know I can be him. Any one of them. In fact, I can be better.

You've never had someone like me, remember? I'm the only one who can do this for you. The only one who begs to be like this for you.

I've learned what you're doing to me. I'll allow it.

What did we always say? No use dwelling and crying when you can either solve it or enjoy it.

This isn't a problem; therefore I have nothing to solve. What option does that leave me with? Ah… right… the other one. The better one.

Look me in the eyes. Ask me. Tell me.

How much more pathetic do you want me to be?

So many words are going to be left unsaid between us.

I want them to be said next time in-person. If we ever… I'm sorry.

We both barely have any time left, yet it feels like we still have all the time in the world.

I see the grains of time falling. They trickle little by little, gentle and slow enough to disarm me, yet the grains… they lessen more and more. They make a little pile at my feet, and my hands are made of hopeless little sieves that can't return them or add more.

I won't say the words aloud. Of whatever… this is. I promise I won't admit my truth. I promise I won't bare it all, heart, thoughts, and soul. Especially with the limited time we have.

I want to look back at this, look back at you and smile and feel grateful I even had all of it in the first place. That for once, I got to slow down. That for once, I stopped and smelled the roses more instead of careening down paths from office, to house, to flights, to meetings, and beyond. I want to know that I was lucky to have met you in a world where all of us are simple grains of sand that make up the shores of humanity. I want to engrave into my mind that you were a blessing to have ever answered me at all.

But how can I do that when I'm this greedy for once in my life too? That for the first time ever, I'm grappling with an enemy bigger than us, gripping the fortune many envy with bleeding fingers and screaming that I want to change my fate?

How can I feel satisfied when there's still so much to learn about you? About me? About us?

How can I feel happy when the more I know about you, the more I'll forget someday?

All I want to do is spend my days with you. Learning you. With you.

How do I stop dreading tomorrow while wishing it could come sooner?

So many words are going to be left unsaid between us. 

I want them to be said next time in-person. If we ever… I'm sorry. 

We both barely have any time left, yet it feels like we still have all the time in the world. 

I see the grains of time falling. They trickle little by little, gentle and slow enough to disarm me, yet the grains… they lessen more and more. They make a little pile at my feet, and my hands are made of hopeless little sieves that can't return them or add more. 

I won't say the words aloud. Of whatever… this is. I promise I won't admit my truth. I promise I won't bare it all, heart, thoughts, and soul. Especially with the limited time we have. 

I want to look back at this, look back at you and smile and feel grateful I even had all of it in the first place. That for once, I got to slow down. That for once, I stopped and smelled the roses more instead of careening down paths from office, to house, to flights, to meetings, and beyond. I want to know that I was lucky to have met you in a world where all of us are simple grains of sand that make up the shores of humanity. I want to engrave into my mind that you were a blessing to have ever answered me at all. 

But how can I do that when I'm this greedy for once in my life too? That for the first time ever, I'm grappling with an enemy bigger than us, gripping the fortune many envy with bleeding fingers and screaming that I want to change my fate? 

How can I feel satisfied when there's still so much to learn about you? About me? About us? 

How can I feel happy when the more I know about you, the more I'll forget someday? 

All I want to do is spend my days with you. Learning you. With you. 

How do I stop dreading tomorrow while wishing it could come sooner? 

I have my pride too. 

Most of it grows from the compliments I receive from peers and colleagues. To be reliable, dependable, competent—the steady boulder in the middle of a storm. Not much fazes me. You would know that, wouldn’t you? That I welcome your tears, your anguish, your rants—I embrace them all, gathering them in my arms and feeling pleased you feel comfortable enough to release them. 

You know that about me. I can see, feel that you’re proud of it. Of me. 

But… the other source of my pride that’s recently taken root and bloomed from your cultivation is… 

Ah, I’m embarrassed. Writing this, I have to pause periodically and cover my face with my rough hands. Why does my face feel hot? The apartment’s at a nice 21 degrees. You’re not even here with me. You’re upstairs, mouth probably agape, snoring cutely into our pillows. 

You don’t even know, do you?

I’m stalling. I’ll say it. Rip it off like a band-aid. 

Fine. Yes. Recently, my newer source of pride… has been you. Obviously. But… in a different way. One that I’m noticing more and more. 

I like when you stare. I like when you sneak glances. I like when you watch. 

This body I’ve resented for so long, having put it through hardship because the soreness and damage were punishment for not being good enough… for once, I feel grateful for having pushed myself to my limits from childhood to early adulthood in those damn sports and lessons I was put into. It almost makes me want to shake the hands of former coaches who made me bawl in locker rooms, instilling resilience and discipline in me from the very beginning. 

Your hands that feel small against a broad chest. Your gaze that draws to my shoulders when I do something as small and simple as a push-up. Your fixation when I roll up the sleeves of my shirt. 

I didn’t know. Perhaps I’m not as sharp as I thought. 

I like it. The goosebumps your attention gives me. The subtle shivers I stifle when your fingertips trace something on my back. 

Look at me more. Keep watching me. Only me. 

I’m never saying that out loud though. Good gracious. 

I have my pride too.

Most of it grows from the compliments I receive from peers and colleagues. To be reliable, dependable, competent—the steady boulder in the middle of a storm. Not much fazes me. You would know that, wouldn’t you? That I welcome your tears, your anguish, your rants—I embrace them all, gathering them in my arms and feeling pleased you feel comfortable enough to release them.

You know that about me. I can see, feel that you’re proud of it. Of me.

But… the other source of my pride that’s recently taken root and bloomed from your cultivation is…

Ah, I’m embarrassed. Writing this, I have to pause periodically and cover my face with my rough hands. Why does my face feel hot? The apartment’s at a nice 21 degrees. You’re not even here with me. You’re upstairs, mouth probably agape, snoring cutely into our pillows.

You don’t even know, do you?

I’m stalling. I’ll say it. Rip it off like a band-aid.

Fine. Yes. Recently, my newer source of pride… has been you. Obviously. But… in a different way. One that I’m noticing more and more.

I like when you stare. I like when you sneak glances. I like when you watch.

This body I’ve resented for so long, having put it through hardship because the soreness and damage were punishment for not being good enough… for once, I feel grateful for having pushed myself to my limits from childhood to early adulthood in those damn sports and lessons I was put into. It almost makes me want to shake the hands of former coaches who made me bawl in locker rooms, instilling resilience and discipline in me from the very beginning.

Your hands that feel small against a broad chest. Your gaze that draws to my shoulders when I do something as small and simple as a push-up. Your fixation when I roll up the sleeves of my shirt.

I didn’t know. Perhaps I’m not as sharp as I thought.

I like it. The goosebumps your attention gives me. The subtle shivers I stifle when your fingertips trace something on my back.

Look at me more. Keep watching me. Only me.

I’m never saying that out loud though. Good gracious.