Sometimes someone will sit down next to me on the subway, and I realize I will spend 20 minutes next to this person and never see their face.
Our shoulders may touch, I may like their shoes, but I will never turn my head to really see them.
What if we look the same?

My girlfriend's eyelashes didn't match her hair. When she took off her mascara, she looked like a ghost. Whereever she is, I know when she washes her face, her eyes scare her.
I told her she was more beautiful that way.
She was in love with contrast.

"He loves me,"
"He loves me,"
"He loves me,"
"He loves me,"
"He loves me,"
She giggled as he reached over and pulled the last petal off himself.
"Yes, I love you," he murmured against her lips. "Irrevocably, undeniably so."
The petals lay forgotten as she responded in the only way that could possibly suffice.

She embraced him, breathing him in, only to let go and step back, confused. There was a strangeness to his scent, an alien presence. He smelled faintly of musk, sandalwood and the sweat of her skin. Still unsure, testing, she leaned forward and kissed his shoulder, but all she could taste was his unmitigated betrayal.

The day he asked her to be his, she started a journal. Everyday, religiously, she wrote one reason why she loved him. It was meant to be a present for him, at some point. Maybe a birthday, or an anniversary. She never imagined that she would need it. To remind her why she should stay.

874 miles, 728 days and 12 inches. That was a lot to be separated by, she mused, considering that she'd never felt closer to anyone. Ever.
She was startled out of her reverie as he casually swung her into his lap. Distance be damned, she grinned to herself as she leaned forward to kiss him.

He expressed disdain at the red tint of her nails and so she never used that color again. She got his bedroom walls painted that exact shade of red the day she walked out on him. All the girls that he brought home loved it. He wondered if a thank you note would be appropriate.

She ran a finger up his arm, smiling at the trail of goosebumps that followed. He mirrored her smile as he shifted in his sleep. Settling herself into his arms, she giggled as he unconsciously pulled her back into him. She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of lovers that called back.

Flirtations. Distractions. Stolen glances over solids. Solids and stripes. He never let her win. She returned the favor. Three to one. One to one.
In the end, they both lost.

Maybe I should have let him win, she'd think with a sigh.

Maybe I shouldn't have sank the eight right then, he would muse later.

Moving On

Today, in the midst of sheer happiness, she thought of him. And she paused. Mid-laugh. And she thought of him. And of them. And the "them" that they used to be. And she wondered what she had been thinking then. Or whether she had even been thinking at all. And then she laughed again.

Something like fate

she woke up sweating, curled tight around herself. she thought she heard him call her name. she felt the burning behind her eyelids. hallucinations. sweet hallucinations. five am. she slowly made her way across the room in the dark. she felt cold. alone. so alone. suddenly she smiled, radiant. The Magic Eight Ball said Yes.

For He Who Sulks

His hair was long. Longer than hers. She loved running her fingers through it. Long and silky. Enough to inspire inadequacy. She played with strands as he slept, twirling them around her finger almost reverently. He couldn't bear for her to feel insufficient, subordinate. He shaved his head. Her hands felt empty. She left.

taara

seventeen freckles on her neck. shaped like a star. slightly skewed. but still, a star. his star, he used to say, fanciful. his. all his. naive. but fanciful, still. but stars burn out. and nobody likes to be left with ashes. only ashes. of burnt out stars. of freckles. freckles that promised so much. once.

crush

my head is throbbing. my mouth is dry, my lips chapped. i run my tongue over my bottom lip, desperately seeking relief. cotton mouth. i can tell you exactly what that means. so much more than a fancy moniker. i can feel the cold tremors running under my skin. but you are oblivious. always oblivious.

Her nails blush endearing shades of coral and soft spirals frame her heart-shaped face. She is perfectly coiffed, impeccably dressed, not one hair out of place. A million women would die to be her. The men, to be with her. The most beautiful woman in the world. Inside, she is empty.