"i don't think this is a good idea," she whispered, but his hand was already shaking above her thigh. he rumbled into the crook of ner neck, "i don't care."
it was all over.
it was nothing but hands then. hands and mouths and breath and bedsheets. she barely noticed the empty house or the rain pounding on the windows. the air lit on fire and it seemed the room was so much smaller than she remembered.
her eyes fluttered like wings and the clouds fell from the sky and skimmed the ground as humble fog. dawn creeped in the windows and her skin glowed with electricity. her head was laying on the pillow, her hands resting in front of her as if she was in prayer. she watched him. his soft hair and arms scarred with heroin. his chapped lips and soft chin. his hands were rough and his words were sharp, but she saw something raw and pliable within it all.
***
after that night she would go to the bookstore he so often haunted just for the chance to see him. every dark green car might have been him, ever time her phone rang he was calling back. she tortured herself with possibilities. she would stay for hours in the bookstore coffee shop, humming well written songs to herself and writing in her journal, hoping against all hope that the next set of headlights that shined through the window was him. how funny that you would be here. why don't we sit down and talk.
but she never cried.
she walked through the rain to her car the night before school started, picturing in her head him walking behind her and grabbing her shoulders. he would say he had been to afraid to come find her, but that he couldn't lose her. oh the wonderous feeling of having someone never want to lose you. she wanted to never be lost to anyone. but she made it to her car. she sat inside and turked the key. he was never coming back. even driving home as her hands shook on the wheel, she pictured him being in her room, lying beside her, whispering into the crook of her neck until they became just hands.
~ashes
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