The Wayward Girl


The red of the cigarette is all that’s alive on this dark, beautiful evening. He looks out the window as I look at the silhouette of his face against the moonlight, as I look at the beauty and warmth that reeks from his being, as the smoke we exhale envelopes our togetherness as does the pessimism of the world that has seen too many lovers regret their love.

I look at the empty spaces visible in his eyes, knowing that I could never fill them with love but also knowing that I am going to try to do exactly that, for the rest of our lives. Looking at his beauty, the disarming truth of his love and feeling like all the love I have ever needed is here, bundled in this one person who I never expected to be the love of my life.  I wait to feel his silky smooth skin, brushing against mine with the same craving that I feel to want him inside me. I feel all the love my heart is capable of precipitate on one person who will never know that no matter where I am, his love is the oxygen that keeps me alive.

His voice is what is real in the unrelenting noise of this busy city, his touch is what keeps making me want to live from one moment to the next and even if I never have another second of his love, even if he wakes up tomorrow morning, oblivious and unrecognizing of me, I will still have had more love than I have ever rightfully deserved and all that because of him, who will never know what he meant to this wayward girl.


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