She doesn't like to talk much when we're together. She's too busy thinking of him while I'm stroking her head, thinking of her. She twists and she turns, contorts herself into something desirable, because she doesn't believe for a second that she's already something desirable. At least, not to someone she loves. She paints her face, not to enhance the existing masterpiece, but to create a new one altogether. 'the muse,' she says smiling at me through the mirror, covered in self loathing and insecurity 'i have to look good for him, like me, but not me' she folds her luscious locs into waves of pity and hurt and she covers her scars and body with too tight tshirts and scarily short shorts, which is different from her usual "hipster ******" look. She loves baggy clothes. He prefers no clothes. I love her the way she is. I beg her not to change who she is, which is only ever met by anger and resentment. She thinks I love him too, that I want to ruin their chance to be together. I want to tell her she's beautiful, that she reminds me of the sunrise at 6am in summer, when the air is warm and dewy and when just a sliver of sunlight brightens your whole day. Because she is my sun, my moon, my whole universe. She is the centre and I can only gravitate around her in awe. These are the things I want to tell her, but she'd never speak to me again. She doesn't like to talk much when we're together. She's too busy thinking of him.
Thinking about old loves, and this came through. It feels as fresh as it used to.