True Love Thinks It Can Wait
My knuckles are purple and blue, dried blood is caked to my index, ring, and middle. A series of smooth pebbles are located beneath the skin of my hards, marks of the swelling, and typing happens slowly. I brushed hands and lips with an old friend today, causing the scene to recind slowly, so that my vision is a box instead of a 16x9 that was orignally intended.
At least you aren't hitting people.
My vision hasn't returned. I can't see the couch to my left, or the kitchen to my right. Ginger snaps upon my desk, and a phone box on the wall frame my vision. Jack White's musical stylings scratch their way across my ears.
I left because when she grabbed the book, I wanted to slap her. I left because I wanted to strangle the life out of his throat. I left because I wanted her blood in the tea. I left because it cuts too deeply. I left because hurt is turning into anger. I left because I'm angry.
Checkers of velvet are more significant than cleavage. The curves of her body cause me to tense, to sigh, to swoon. But those little checkers of velvet cause me to remember why I love her. That checkerboard is what haunts my vision now.
Sex is easy. Love is hard.
Currently Listening: The White Stripes - Dead Leaves and The Dirty Ground