Wednesday, June 3

she's not mine

But she's so close. I don't know if she knows just how much she means to me. How I cannot go a minute without thinking about her. How every minute I spend thinking about her makes a girl-shaped hole rip ever wider in my heart. How I think she's the most beautiful girl in the entire world and any flaws she thinks she may have are inconsequential at their worst and serve only to further accentuate her beauty at their best.

But she's not mine.

How I wish my finger tips would melt with hers, then move down her arms, down her sides, to her lovely legs, leaving contrails of tingly sensation in their wake. How her scent brings up within me the memories or everything good. How the mere sight of her instills within me an unparalleled elation, for truly I have never loved any girl as I do her. How my hands would ache, not being able to run themselves over the small of her back.

But she's not mine.

How the way her hair looks when she doesn't straighten it after taking a shower is one of the most beautiful sights I know of, and would surely be the last thing I imagine before I die. How her crystalline eyes belie a soul deeper than anyone before her's. How I love her punches so. And her lips? Oh, how I love her lips. Too shiny. In fact, too good to be true. They're what is good in the world. She is what's good in the world.

But she's not mine.

Even though she is as a beacon of light to me, the pinnacle of human beauty and fascination to me. Even though it would not matter to me whatever indiscretions she may have commited. Even if she was somehow made not as she is now, in an accident that rendered her somehow less aesthetically pleasing, it would not matter
to me. Fifty years from now, I can still see myself looking back on her as one of the best parts of my life, and how I would have given anything for her. I would feel the deepest regret, even if I had done all I could.

But she's not mine.

and I used to be okay with that. To a certain extent, I still am. But it pains me. And yet, the only thing I want is for her to attain every happiness possible, and I could only hope I would die trying to spare her some minute discomfort, such as a splinter or rash. Because, for her, she's entirely worth it.

Babe, you're worth remembering.

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