Disorderly and woozy, we occupied the bench outside your home. I reclined as if we weren’t on garden furniture, but on a lavish sofa in a bright and airy office. And you are charging me way too much to talk about my feelings.
The air is thick with the last segment of summer and I am overflowing with longing. One day I’ll relate to the leaves that have changed their colour all during the early months of October instead of the stubborn, emerald leaves that refuse to change until they fall.
I rest my head in your lap, my awkward legs spill over the edge of the seat. He fashioned his own clouds on the navy sky, his free hand moving slowly through my hair. We were talking about something close to love, though I can’t quite remember – I swear my heart ached but he won’t retrieve those words from my mouth so easily.
I pick fights with him because I want to know if he feels something. “I think it would kill me to see you with somebody else” my drunkenness didn’t disguise the hurt in my voice enough and it all got a little too real for a moment.
The neighbourhood dogs barked to break the silence and I swept my sleeve under my eye to confiscate a couple of tears.
You have the curse of making me feel like the schoolgirl who has a naïve crush and I hate that. The smell of you and alcohol clouds my judgement and suddenly furious for letting myself get this way. I am still an artist and you are a muse and a masterpiece all in one. I created unfinished sketches on your shoulders and accidentally smudged the watercolour on your collarbone with the side of my hand.
Your eyes devour me from across the room and I drink it all in. You kissed me, and it was all desire and cigarettes and dreamy songs and I hate that this is so natural and hey, we’d be great together. Maybe when you’ve figured out me we can finally figure out “us”. I dream about our next collision; a volatile combination of the what-ifs and what will be, will be.