It isn’t fair.
It isn’t fair and I know it’s wrong and it shouldn’t be like this. But I can’t help it. There’s something wrong with my love story and I’ve always been this way. Each day it only gets worse and I know it won’t go away because it’s him.
With his skin so sun-kissed it’s hot to the touch, heated, and he’s like fire. I get too close and I’m always getting burned but I can’t stay away, because I’d rather feel the burns than feel nothing but the cold and the memory of his dying embers.
His hair, ruffled and black as charcoal and curling when it’s damp; I can’t even look at it without the haunting remembrances of the feel of it between my fingers, as my nails dragged over his scalp, his collarbones, his shoulders. Or the warm, earthy smell of it, when his head would rest in the crook of my neck and there was nothing except the steady thump of his heart against my own.
And his eyes, always his eyes.
Deep and dark and I like them best when they’re turned away. Because when he gets quiet and I know he’s thinking, they can tell me everything in the world and more. I could know anything just by meeting his gaze alone, and I’d never even have to ask because one shared look, like a fierce magnetic connection, could be any answer I could need. And when the summer sun glares and the light fills them just right, the chocolate brown shines a warm, sweet golden. A color nowhere else, nowhere else except his eyes alone. Sparking like flames and laughing, smiling even when he isn’t.
I see him in colors that don’t exist.
Walking, only five steps ahead, his legs so much longer than mine, and I haven’t seen him in what seems too long of a time and suddenly he exists again. Just being with him now is too much, even separated and distanced, because no matter where we are or who we’re with, he’s all there is. He doesn’t look at me and he doesn’t say anything but it doesn’t really matter because seeing him is enough.
It’s not even the way he looks, the rumble of his low voice, it’s the way he moves because it’s exactly the way he always has. The way I always remembered and I’ve tried to convince myself that he is different now but he’s not.
He is still on fire, still lighting me with flames but we don’t glow together and instead he scorches and consumes me. Scalds me and sets me ablaze without even touching me, his flickering eyes sparking with my sickly sweet reek of gasoline. There’s pain and it sears white-hot, and sometimes I think I might fall to ashes and I can’t be near him and I know it’s not safe.
But I can’t stay away from him all the same.
And I should have known this, should have seen it all coming, because I was the one who’d tried to douse the flames, our flames, and now I’m scarred.
His heat blazes on and it is not for me anymore.
Maybe I’ve been the one on fire, scorching everyone else and leaving them with scars, and now with him and all the rest gone, I’ve got nothing left to burn away except myself.
But my heat is not like his, I am smoke and cinders in the wind.
And every touch is cold after his.