It's two in the morning, it's always two in the morning when nothing seems right and your smile haunts and lingers in my periphery.
It's two in the morning and one candle flickers in the corner of this dark and hallowed room. Etta James plays on repeat and any stranger looking in might attribute this scene to something like love. Maybe it's halfway there, as he says my name in between breaths that take most of my air, and heartbeats that drum staccato. Maybe, just for a moment, as I shut my eyes and scream into the darkness, filling the spaces beneath my nails with the flesh on his chest, and my whole body is aglow with inescapable pleasure- maybe I love him in that brief reprieve.
It's two in the morning and I'm rolling onto my side over sticky white sheets. He looks at me as the singular flame dances and casts shadows that paint the arch of my hips against the stucco, and he tells me that he loves me, and I can't figure it out. Maybe it's because the light is so forgiving, softening this look of bone deep sorrow and sickening nostalgia into something like affection.
Or maybe you were always right when you called me a sociopath or a shameless narcissist. Maybe I like playing with fire- getting as close to love as possible before disappearing, before committing one more satisfying act of self sabotage.
It's two in the morning, and he's looking at me like he means it but I can't stomach it. I've been asking for it and now the words just sit there, shining in the candle light and they're sickening and nothing feels right because he's made the same mistake as all the others- he isn't you.