There’s Something About Him

I have a bunch of writing lying around that I think is crap. But someone once told me to have more confidence in what I do. And thanks to you for helping me expand my horizons, even though you did it in the most a**hole way possible. Therefore, I’m taking a risk by posting more of my stuff. Please tell me if you like it or if I should burn it.

My conscience lies deep below the crashing waves, flooding my mind to its full capacity. I awaken from something that is not sleep. My thoughts are far too erratic for the normal person, I think. He says he will be late. I sigh a bit and let it all go. I have maybe half an hour to fantasize. This activity I enjoy, because with the combination of my own wanderlust and music, I can vividly imagine anything about him. The sickly sweet concoction of addictive beats and thoughts produces a high to which I cannot compare to anything else. As if I’d had some other experience to compare these feelings with.

The doorbell chimes viciously, interrupting the mess within my mind. It’s him, and Lord does he look lovely. His clothes never really match, but somehow it makes him perfect. I have a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach that is eating away at me, yet it is so right. I’m choked up, as if someone has clutched my neck and held me breathless. I apply my best, winning smile like I have no cares. I greet him. Words escape my mouth, but they come from a portion of my brain that keeps me from falling apart when there is nothing to say. Of all things, I wonder if I look presentable. I have this theory that if my makeup is just right, I say all the things he wants to hear, and I smile like I’ve never frowned, he’ll see past the ugliness I know I can conceal.

Time passes like sand through my mental hourglass. He sits across from me on a desk chair like he is something of a psychologist. He’s 4 feet away, but right now there is no difference than if it were 4 miles. It’s too far. I want him next to me. I want to feel his touch, which is indescribable as anything other than gentle. I hold back due to my thoughts that he is like a cat, affectionate at times, but timid if his weaknesses are identified.

My mind is still floating throughout dinner and during a short walk we take. I carefully brush my arm against his as we stroll my neighborhood. He takes the hint and holds my hand in his. Even this is too much, my thoughts flutter from my head and I have no syllables to speak. All I can possibly comprehend is his touch. And when I have that, nothing else matters. I make a desperate attempt and grab hold of what fragments of a conversation I possess. We return home and I open the front door as silently as possible. I don’t want to socialize with my parents, not with this feeling in my veins.

Somehow we are back in my room, where I am closest enough to comfortable with him around. I motion for him to come sit next to me. The weight shifts to the other side of my bed. I feel quite whole now. I run my fingertips over his pale arm before taking his hand once more.

My thoughts are somewhat bewildering, such as the reason why his veins are so visible is because he is a creative being. Therefore, he needs more blood pumping to his brain to be able to develop such elaborate works of poetry. My current worry of many is that he can read through my thoughts like they are emails back and forth.

We discuss things, things that don’t mean shit because being with him almost overloads my aching mind. He is stroking my thumb with his. I am having a hell of a time focusing. I pretend I don’t notice it in order to continue whatever pointless statement I’m blurting out at the moment.

Next thing I know, his arm tightens around my waist. Classic, but it’s more than ok. In a spare silence, I quickly think back to the sonnet that was clearly discussing my character and behavior. He had written, “The hope that she loves me too, I cling.” I debate whether he genuinely believes he loves me or if it is just a budding thought he put down on paper. Hell, I don’t know.

My mind is startled into reality for the millionth time today when he is rubbing my forearm up and down with his thumb. My universe, my dreams, and my desires all come crashing down in a beautiful, disastrous fashion. I’m paralyzed, I can’t talk any longer, it’s too much. All I am capable of is wondering whether he knows that this is driving me crazy. I want him to quit because my brain can’t function to speak. However, I egg him on telepathically to keep going, because in times like these words are not necessary. They are just barricades to prevent expressing these twisted infections called feelings.

I am experiencing a sensation neither new nor old. It is not relative to anything man-made. Whether I have felt it before, I cannot fathom. It is a connection between my heart and brain. It is white noise, expect it is felt instead of heard. This unknown frightens me and excites me so.

It is in this very moment that I realize what makes me want him. He has an unspoken rhythm in everything he does. Not just those wonderful, obvious things, like when he picks up his guitar. Or when I read one of his poems to myself and smile. No, it’s in his touch, his voice, the way he looks around constantly when he’s nervous. If only I had such a rarity as well, I would be worthy of his affection. I am so empty of talent, of consistency. Why he cannot see that I do not understand. Sure there are other fish in the sea, but none will ever swim is gracefully as he does…

Bethany Durham



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