You And I, We Look Like Art

you me
you me

We looked like artwork as we spilled into each other yet again.

Untangling myself from his sheets and his hair, I knew we were the messiest of combinations, a toxic blend even – difficult to separate once contact was made.

You know, like red wine splashed upon a white dress, a tattoo across the forehead, or waterproof mascara on a freshly washed pillowcase.

No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried to cleanse my veins of him, I just couldn’t get him off me.

And part of me didn’t want to.

He looks at me like I never left, like he never left; and for a split second, with my head on his warm chest and his heartbeat in my ear, I wonder why we ever do leave.

But rest assured I am reminded, when as he finally rolls over, face content and light with sweat, he reclaims his arm from around my naked waist.

Suddenly, I am once again just a body; a slightly cold, wide-eyed, naked body, trying not to take up too much space in the right-side of a bed that is not mine.

I remember that tomorrow we will probably argue, or just not speak, or hurt each other in some other round-about, ‘wouldn’t believe it’ kind of way.

I am reminded that together we are not art, but more of a vibrant mess.

And he alone, is a novel.

He is a novel I’ll never quite get to the end of, a book I started with good intentions, but whose plot twists and turbulent narrative have confused me miserably along the way.

His are the pages I’ll always have high hopes for; the ones that when I pick them up, I cannot put down. A slave to his words, I read on obsessively, waiting and waiting for the climax that never comes.

Oh, but I am dedicated, I’ve come this far, I think at times, and I refuse to give up on his potential yet. Never losing interest, I keep turning page after page.

But my expectations are growing further distant, the idea of future chapters begin to seem futile like empty promises.

Laying in his bed now, I realise I’ve been a madwoman, indulging in page after blank page of little to nothing, exulting over a word or a sentence every now and again.

I leave quickly the next morning, bracing myself for the emotional hangover to come.

Completely starved of the content I craved, my eyelids are heavy, my face has worn thin. My enthusiasm has waned, and all satisfaction this addiction once brought me ceases.

I am exhausted, disappointed. I finally put my novel down, and I admit, I feel free.

Yet somehow I can’t bring myself to throw him out completely, and there he sits, collecting dust on my bookshelf.

Sometimes, in moments of weakness, I still fall asleep with that darn book heavy on my chest, thoughts of what might have happened next filling my night’s mind.

But I dare not actually open the thing.

The temptation of starting to read from where I left off is too strong, and I know doing so only ever leads to one thing: Me, with him, in his bed, trying to be art again. TC mark

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