♥ Shizzle Nizzle ♥ // L is for Lethal, not Love

L is for Lethal, not Love - The silver moonlight seeped through her curtain drapes, making silent entrance into the pitch dark room. She sat on her bed with her knees up, touching her chin. Mind wandered as he changed his sleeping position. Why did I cave in, she asked herself. After all these years she struggled to forget him. She was doing so well until last night, one single phone call and her wall shattered to the ground. She is weak. She is confused. Did he deserve her? Probably not. He was beautiful, more than everything she has ever seen. He said things like, let’s go swimming in the sky, he changed like the wind. He would find a bridge from which he would sit and watch the city roll on. Then he would point at the tallest building and said to her, “I would build that for you so we could climb up there and sit down like this”. She would ask him what they would do next, and he would tell her he would find her the next taller building to build. He thinks two steps further than everybody else.

On their first date, he drank all her whiskey, threw up all over her dress and told her he loved her. That moment she knew, he was all she ever wanted. What they had was like a glitch in the matrix, it was all rare and bizarre. But to her, it has to be rare, beautiful, and bizarre, otherwise she doesn’t want it. They were how she imagined connoisseurs to be. Days blazed into countless dusks, spent in confined rooms. Waking up too late, waking up too soon, who cares as long as the sun is still shining? They had each other, he had his way of a lover. He said when he loves someone, he’d do it in little pieces like a puzzle. When they made love, it was like an applique of interlocking souls. They could go for days, turning hunger into perpetual and sleep into an anomaly.

One day, they fought and she left. Her heart was sliced, diced, and divided into million bits, packaged, conveyed to the highest highs and lowest lows; a construction of one solid principle. The spaces between them should be appreciated, but she always hated the way he lingered, even after he was gone. Bedsheets she had to wash. Screw him, screw these last remnants of his scent. Screw the songs that all sing out his name, his face, his jet black hair. Screw him for the lost memories, they made their way home at the most convenient time. She decided, when he wakes up she would tell him their love is done, it had been, it had passed. To her, their love was like a fairytale, but you see, fairytales aren’t real. He is always two steps ahead, like he’s always been. He would break her heart once again, and this time she would never recover from the pain.

POSTED 1 year ago

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