I have tried to love you, while you loved another.
I’ve tried making peace, with the fact that I will always, always fall second in your heart.
We are not a cliche. We are a vicious cycle.
We fall in a dance, that we never speak of.
I wait for you at night. You stumble in my arms, drunk and desperate.
We sleep through hurried whispers in the darkness, fleeting fingertips shaking terribly over white-hot heat of skin touching against skin, slow-dancing with silence in lieu of music, the sharp angles of your hipbones and the dip where your collarbone meets your sternum
– all these and more, on my lips and the way you tear through my flesh
– only to run out my bed when the morning comes, to run in his arms
And he’ll meet you at the door smelling of fresh showers and mint toothpaste, and summery aftershave.
He’ll ask you where you’ve been and you’ll conjure a lie or two about how you’ve spent the night and the day before with your sister or how you’ve spent the night on your friend’s couch…
…but I am not your friend, and you certainly didn’t spend the night on my couch.
And in the afternoon, I’ll see you with him, his hands on the small of your back, exactly just as where my hands had been, just hours ago.
The sun sets, the night falls and I’ll wait for you to run to me again.
And you always do.
We’re not a cliche We’re poison meant to **** each other, and we’re not supposed to mesh at all. We’re an incurable sickness that we both know we cannot live without.
We’re lies and lies and lies. Topped off with lies again and again.
We are not empty wineglasses left on the floor to pick up dust or to shatter to pieces, but we are more of an unfinished novel dog-eared and thrown a thousand times across the floor both in frustration and in anger.
We both keep picking it up and re-reading over and over again even though we already know how this story ends.