It's getting unbearably hot. I need to move my bed across the room, right underneath that ceiling fan.
This is difficult - writing about things that aren't remotely related to you is tough. There's a pause in between the sentences I make up in my head. There are no words in that pause. There's just you. When these occur, they seem eternal, which makes me wonder if the sentences I make up in my head are the actual pauses. Makes me wonder if my every interaction with the objects around me is a break from thinking of you and from remembering the fragrance of your hair…
I'm going to bed now. And I'm going to see you when I close my eyes. You'll probably be staring at me with that cold look on your face, the face you make when I say something stupid like "I want this song to be played at my funeral". Or maybe you'll be blushing, your face pink, and your lips failing miserably at concealing your admiration for my wit. Sometimes you'll not be there and I'll only remember the warmth of your hugs. And all of this will keep me awake. All of this will slip me silently into the realm of dreams, and the world will think I've fallen asleep.
I remember all those times when you’d turn to look back at me from amongst the crowd of people that brought us together and kept us apart, to laugh at one of my stupid jokes. Your eyes would sometimes meet mine and my heart would then skip a beat. Sometimes they’d just travel the length of my face, looking for something. At those times, my lips would quiver a bit, be a little too self-conscious about the half smile they’d put on my face. My eyes, then, would look into yours while yours wandered over my awkward smile. My heart would start knocking hard at the wall of concrete emptiness that separated you from me, making my whole being quiver a little as it urged me to scream out to you. I’d die a little, knowing this moment would soon be over, knowing we’d continue to live as though this moment never happened. I’d die a little as we’d go back to being one of those people that brought us together and kept us apart, and nothing more.
I need a solid answer from you. You know, like a list or something. A list of reasons why you don't want to be with me. A list of reasons why you think we're not made for each other. A list of reasons why you think it'll be a waste of time for us to go on dinner dates.
Give me a freaking list, woman. And end this silence once and for all. It's killing me. It's like I'm half way through a story and the rest of the pages have been torn away. I still know the ending, though - the last page is still there, intact in front of my eyes. I read it and I know we're not going to die in each others' arms as I would want it to happen. I know it.
I just want to hear you say it. I just want to know why. I want to know what you think about this whole mess. Or if you think about it at all.
So yeah, give me a list.
Few things have consumed me more than the obsession I've had to know more about Beth Hurley. It is hard to say why she interested me so much in the first place. She's beautiful, undoubtedly so; but so are dozens of other girls I see on a daily basis. In fact, now that I think about it, it certainly wasn't her beauty alone - it was something else. It was her simplicity, I think. It was the matter-of-factly manner in which every word that came out of her mouth was spoken. It was the way her eyes teased me, revealing just enough to rouse my curiosity, never enough to fully satisfy it. It was as though there were unspoken thoughts and abandoned feelings inside of her, both of which added many more dimensions to her beauty, and it was upon my job to find those out and make her even more beautiful than she already was.