The last time I saw her, she lit her cigarette with her eyes closed. Knowing something like this as if the back of your hand is not easy. Her eyes gazed at mine. Guys like me get intimidated by gazes like hers. Maybe she knows it. Maybe she does it on purpose. Maybe she does all of it on purpose.
The time when she held my hand in front of her friends and pulled me back to take me to the loo so that she’d kiss me, she knew everyone knew what she was up to. Or the time she sat beside me and curled her legs in a manner in which her shiny thighs were evident, and held my palms fiercely but drew nothings so tenderly; I was teaching a stubborn child to hold a pen. The time when she pushed me on the bed and removed my shirt and smirked, for she’s the one who could do anything, she looked even more sexy.
And when she curved her back towards me, I tried not to, but ended up staring at her cleavage. She laughed at it, too. She took my hands above my head and pinned them with one of hers. She has her ways of not letting me touch. And then when she would come close to kiss me, she would stop as soon as I would kiss back. Rules are rules, love.
That’s not how I want to love. But then, have you seen her hold a pen? The way her fingers tenderly hold my hand when she felt tickled or butterflies around? The way her mouth curls when she says sweet nothings in my ears trying to turn me on, failing to realize that she does it effortlessly, anyway? The way she held the curtain close while she went to change her shirt; her eyes blushing and her index finger on her lips curling to “shh, no watching?”
Oh, and you haven’t seen her naked. Her breaths fighting her demons of the inside who try to stop her from baring her soul; her breaths trying to project that it’s okay to be vulnerable; her breaths putting up a brave front.
I can’t love her, nor can I stop loving her. Complicated, isn’t it?