I think the title sums it up nicely. – “Don’t tangle with friends and exes” especially when they’re both.
Dark hair, quiet lilac eyes behind glasses. Bare skin, starlight freckles, a spill of lamplight on golden hair. I seduced, black lace in my teeth, ink into the emptiness of want and desire, of freedom and torturous pleasure. I should have bound my hands with ribbon, and bit my lip until I tasted blood. I should have listened to the nightingales singing songs of truth, of unforgivable love, never forgotten words and touch.
You didn’t feel like him. And that’s what I wanted.
You held my hands as I tiptoed on icicles, and laughed at my shrieks when you tried to let go. I clutched onto your arms so tight, your smile rare and raw, violet and jade irises shine, my crushed pink velvet. Our breath, clouds in the cool night air, drawn hearts in the window, Lana Del Rey crooning in the background. You kissed me like I was air, and you were suffocating. You kissed me like the apocalypse was upon us, like the bombs were coming for us, and I was the last thing you’d taste or see. You kissed me like I was your gate to Hell or Heaven, and my lips were the admission.
You were my safe place, my peace offering, my white flag in a battle, my lighthouse in the storm of my own making.
The spring rain was now a sudden storm, rattling the glass, lightning eerie and full of wonder. Pale hands fisted in sunlight locks, buttons in fingers. But, within us was the danger. Long fingers at my throat, my hands underneath your coat, an opera of sighs and murmurs and thunder. Electric bolts aimed in the trees, and as one split open, I shattered with you, and you ended with me.
Driving away from pain, driving to the unknown, and you my passenger. Or you: my home away from home.
And every day I miss your laughter. And every day I miss the way you tackled me into the grass or made me growl or looked at me in disbelief. And every day I wonder about you, and I wonder if you think about me. And every day, I know you’re better off without me there. I want you to be happy, more than I want you to remember my smile and remember an affair. I want you to find your home; not this girl, not this storm, not this one.
Even if it means I’m alone.
Elisabeth Writing 