Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Those feelings are hitting me again. Those fucking feelings, irritating wonderful feelings.
And I know they mean nothing. But so quick? Why does this happen so easily? And if I think about it, I don’t even know why this obsession has come over me again. Why him? He has no distinctive qualities. He’s not super interesting or funny or smart or rich. He’s not model material – good looking but not absolutely stunning. He doesn’t blow my mind in bed. But somehow I just want him. Desperately want him. Consumed by want of him. He’s gorgeous. He’s amazing. He’s wonderful. Why? I don’t know, he just is. My heart says so. Heartache and logic are mutually exclusive.
I want him to hold me forever. I want that moment in bed with him, where we’re sitting, laughing, and he leans over and kisses me and the look in his eyes is pure adoration. I want that moment where I can believe that I’m safe and protected and for once I can be honest because nothing I say will make that look go away. I want that moment where his secrets become mine too, where he feels just as comfortable with me as I do with him, where he lets me hold him and comfort him too.
I want that moment where I can admit to falling for him, and everything will be all right. He’ll tell me he feels the same, and we’ll talk about the possibility of something “more.” What that would entail, what conditions we’d each have to meet. And we’d promise that we’d do those things, and we’d kiss more passionately than ever before, and we’d fuck like never before, gently and roughly and like the world was ending. And afterward we’d hold each other tight, so tight, sweat mixing in the folds of our skins pressed together, our bodies hot as furnaces, and still we wouldn’t let go. Not for a long, long time. And when we finally do, we’d keep our fingers intertwined. We’d kiss again, just once, but a lingering one. Good night. I adore you. Those are the words we’d fall asleep to.
And in the morning he’d get up first like he always does, and take a few minutes to stare at me sleeping. I’d sense it and open my eyes slowly to his, and he’d smile and touch my cheek. The emotions. Purity. We’d say those words again and kiss and fuck and lay there more, in a bed made of happiness.
And that would be it.
That would be the end of the moment. Because once that part’s done, we’d have to get back to reality. There’s a life outside of bliss after all. And after that peak of perfection is reached, the only way we can go is down. Questions. Demands. Irritations. Frustrations. Tears. The only way to go when you’ve reached the highest point of happiness you can ever reach is down, and that moment was the highest point. After that it’s just poor imitations, getting worse and worse, until it’s all over.
And that part I don’t want. All I want is the one moment, where we say we want each other desperately and have a night and a morning where we act like we do. And then I just want things to go back to normal – I want to slide back down the way I came up, not try my luck with the other side. The words would never be mentioned again after that moment, and though we might see the desire for them in each other’s eyes once in a while, we would push it aside.
Friends. I’d rather just be real true friends forever. I want the absolution of my heartache, for the few moments that it will last, but I want a friend more.
Let’s put these emotions to good use. These silly, unpleasant, magical feelings. Give from the heart as much as I can, show my desire every day until it’s blatant, but never say a word. It’s easier that way.
Is this real? Am I making it up because I’m a masochist, because I like the feeling of pain, of heartache? Whatever the reason, it’ll fade soon enough. No point in ruining an amazing thing for a feeling that will disappear as soon as I find something better.