“I swear if this love fails, I wouldn’t take romance this deep for a second time.”
I do not know of any confidence that moment. All I know was that this isn’t a swirl of feelings, even if it was, not even sensual, even if it was; it was the four-letter word I swear I loathed since I knew whatever darkness looms over this world.
Whims are always cruel, cruel things. I would never want to romanticize the sudden skips of my heartbeat when he touches me, or worse are those hormonal attacks scavenging my last pieces of sanity. And it was that whim, that childish spur of our eerie, surreptitious moments that turned us into angels in disgrace, as I call it.
Not once did all this occur to me. Not until this moment, in the least. I have that superpower of suppressing desires when I most need them, or feel them, and surely this is the worst timing for its manifestation, though. But one thing is more than certain: I have only loved once; that I can romanticize for as exaggeratingly as I can.
We have kissed a couple of times, but soon as seclusion from our worldly worlds was chosen, we have resolutely let our lips touch, candy-like, sweet spice, like always. Gentle never was our word so it felt a little awkward and rushed. I knew, from this moment, that this is different. Not as hot as the rush of blood the first time we kissed, but it was more of a block solidifying my feelings, that they’re not just emotions: I fell hard for him.
Speaking as we were survivors of a horrible past, which I am certain is boring to narrate for it’s all merely about me being a second choice, this all feels like a little retracing to me.
“Can you… take of your clothes?
N..no. Just your shirt.”
I have, if not a thousand times, replayed the illusion of this very scene in my head too many times that I was disappointed the moment my modesty kicked in. I was supposed to be the strong girl I have deemed myself to be. Even bolder.
He unhesitatingly yanked his shirt up in response and casted it off somewhere the darkness made sure I won’t see. And I couldn’t care less: not right now, not about anything. I laid flat on the mattress, surely worth the price we rented the apartelle for, which is kind of bum, and stared straight at the complete blur of the scene. I can incredibly intoxicate myself and lose consciousness whenever I want to, I don’t even need alcohol. This skyrockets the mood of the moment.
Without any orientation, while avoiding anything drastic to happen, our worlds became one.
Am I cheap?
I was the inquirer and I was the captive. I was the interviewer and I was the alleged criminal. I was the paparazzi and I was the actress. I was the question and I was the answer.
Not everything that’s wrong is cheap.
Or is it even wrong?
Isn’t it that it’s just different?
To think that this someone is all I could ever want to have, is it foolish? Something that obscures my ‘wanting to know as much as I can’ principle carved in my tree? If these are chains, I’d gladly be locked-up, for this one thing.
To take off clothes, to take off masks, to take off to another space that transcends our perimeters, our dimension: this is what I long for.
Most of the broken souls are the most beautiful ones. Do we really have to get broken to spark rainbows of our own? And he, that him has an ebon shade of a soul, but how can he emanate more colors than the LEDs give off?
Slowly, we both gave the top half of us up: to see, to feel, to love, to loathe, to fall even deeper.
I’m getting childish. I’m getting awakened. A feisty beast in a feast, we were. I’ve let him, as I laid upright, terribly shaking, feet trembling, hands to elbows numb like an illusionary march of ants to battle, pinned to the sheets by his. His ever so crushing lips stamped my neck a red blood mark, like a flag set on a foreign earth, declaring his triumph.
He’s Armstrong and I’m the moon.
The trace of his tongue as he tracked the dent in the middle of my back up to my nape, freezes like Elsa’s footsteps.
This is beyond lunacy.
Snapping me out, though, the wolves of the past packed to chase after me. The skeletons in my closet set a march to knock me down. I don’t know. I felt guilty and sad and thirsty. It’s never lust. I’ve never lusted for anyone. But I wanted him this much. And more, if ever the heavens would grant me. But the packs and the herds are chasing me to my knees, wanting me to pay for things I’ve broken, the wrecked pasts that cannot be undone.
In the end, which he didn’t and shouldn’t know, I was struck with both the swirling magic spells of guilt and love.
Author Notes: I'm nothing compared to that deity.