I
Come Back to Me
Sitting on the stairs, writhing in the pain consuming my heart, I remembered what I thought I had, wanted what I couldn't get.
Love.
I've already tried to forget, but I couldn't. It's my fault for letting him get to me. I just couldn't let go. I knew I would be hurt, but I've wanted so badly to be loved.
How sweet he was to me, teaching me French while we sat so close we touched. Around others we acted like nothing was between us but people saw and knew. To fake not liking him went against every fibre of me. I felt it between us; the bond was strong.
He'd rest his head on my shoulder, my head on his. I felt his hair, dark, soft and shiny; I smelt his scent. That was the most intimate I've ever been with a guy. I enjoyed every moment of him being mine. I would speak to him in French with my heavy english accent and he'd softly hum a sweet, velvety, calm "mmmhmmm" in agreement, as he came back to me even closer as I wanted, needed him.
He'd lift his head as if to smell my scent, savour me; wrap his arm around my waist. "You're mine," his body said, and in return, I'd hold his arm in place with mine, entwine our fingers."I'm yours," Rest a hand on his leg. "I want you."
It was hard to describe how I felt with just words, so I used actions. The tenderness in my heart poured out and I gently caressed his face with my hand. His hair had been on my cheek.
Enjoy this while you can, because nothing is forever.
Our eyes met in a gaze so deep I felt we had a connection. We didn't speak each others' language well, but we understood each other.
Everything that would be against us-- skin colour, age, language-- couldn't be against us then.
Except for distance.
After a while people started to know about us, and he'd be shy and stoppped talking to me for a while. He stared at me with those beautiful dark eyes.
I liked him because of how nice he was to help people with their moving or their groceries. He was bad-ass too, when he'd swear it was cute, so it didn't turn me off like it normally would. He was gentle, his eyes were soft when he looked at his cats. I watched with silent wonder as he stroked the kitten like it was his baby.
He worked day and day out, as I read my book. Suddenly I looked up accidentally to find his eyes fixed on me. I looked away quickly. He called my name, "I love you." he said in english.
I loved how he said my name with his French accent.
"Why?" I asked in French.
"Because." he answered then walked away. My heart burned as I fought with me.
Why would he love me of all people? Pas possible.
I pushed away this emotion but it came back even harder.
We sat on a bench, wordless. I couldn't bring myself to say anything, even if I wanted to.
Days later I didn't see him. I came back home from the river one day and then a girl came up to me and told me he was moving.
He wanted to say goodbye. He was looking for me. But I was nowhere to be found.
"You're lying," I said. "You're really lying."
I knew she wasn't.
That night I snuck outside that very night to check if he was at home. Nothing. I hopelessly checked the streets for his car, every passing biker.
He was really gone.He left me here.
Sitting on the stairs, writhing in the pain consuming my heart, I remembered what I thought I wanted, I wanted to escape this hold on me. Pain.
I hated everyone especially him-- damn him. But I hated me more. Damn my heart.
Come back to me. My heart sang out to whoever would listen.
Someone bring him back to me.
How I hated him for not telling me he'd be gone. someday the one you love will break your heart. It's him or it's you.
With my cries of pain, i sat there in the corner of my room rocking, waiting maybe, for hope of his return.
