You lay there with your legs intertwined with his. You roll to your side, reaching for something in particular, but you can no longer remember what it was you were reaching for. Your hands grasp for nothing. You arm falls lazily to the side of the bed. You lay on your side, and unlike the ones before him, he doesn’t reach for you. You like it that way. You hate the feeling of a heavy arm on your shoulder. The heat from his skin burns your back.
He hands you a cigarette and a glass of water, pushes the stray strands of hair away from your face. His lips warm, they kiss you close to your ear lobe. It’s always perfect. He knows your secrets, the ones you’ve yet to tell him. He excuses himself and climbs out. He pulls you up onto the pillow. He pulls you slowly, delicately. And then he walks out and you watch him leave.
You roll back onto your side, check the time and stare at the wall. He returns with another glass of water. He climbs back into bed. He pulls you closer by your legs. You wrap your legs around him and he holds you too close. You realize this is too close but you say nothing. This time it will be different.
You are intoxicated by him. His lips, his eyes. The way he teases you, twirls your hair around his finger. His boyish charm, his juvenile sense of humour. The way he makes you wait for hours, days. He owes no explanation to you and you command none. He will call and you will crawl back into bed with him. He will leave you without pictures, songs, borrowed t-shirts and other memorabilia that lovers exchange. He is everything you want, but he is not what you should want.
He is cold, unknowingly manipulative. Your hands fit perfectly into his. He closes his eyes for a moment and you kiss him gently. You know that this time will be different. But it never is. You compare him to the beautiful men in lovely black and white movies. Tall, stoic. Workaholics, alcoholics with no soul but with eyes full of too much soul, and all it takes is an honest conversation. They become changed men. Men capable of holding and feeling. They run away with you to Paris. You peruse the streets of Rome with him. He is there at night and you can hear him breathing. The only two stars of your wonderful movie, in black and white, with no blurring grey areas.
Or you lay in bed alone, promising to never love the man you shouldn’t want. But you were never very good at keeping promises.
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