Wednesday, April 9, 2014

WTF #6477968: I Can Only Hope

Sitting here.

I am trying my utmost to get my brain to refrain from letting your image infatuate it so. I am monitoring my breathing patterns in hopes that my heart slows down, so that it might forget to beat for you. I am trying to do impossible things to take my life back. I am failing successfully. I will hope that you miss me too though. I hope you miss me with all your senses.

When you go about your day, and happen to come across a photograph, or you read my name somewhere. I can only hope that your eyes lock. I pray that your mind presses play and displays our movie of memories in such high definition; it robs you of your breath. I wish the molecules in your tears would race each other, causing a stampede in your ducts, ready to erupt and soak whatever it is you were looking at.

I can only hope that when you hear a song we both like, your ears fuzz. Shiver even. I so wish your body aches for mine so bad that you would squeeze your pillows so hard, you were eventually hugging yourself. You should let out an involuntary gasp when you hear my name mentioned, and it should echo all day, rhythmically pounding against your eardrums until you feel the need to scream it. Like you screamed it.

Should someone manage to touch you like I touched you or if some other lips have been kissing you where I've kissed, I can only hope that your skin feels the intruder and reports the act of treason. Or your mouth should forget its place and scream my name. Like you screamed it. I pray your torso reenacts the pleasures I made you feel. The laughter in a tickle. The adrenaline in being picked up. My teeth on your neck. My hands on your back. 

Beer, Coffee, Cigarettes and Popcorn. Our favorite things. I can only hope that when taste them now, you become so beside yourself that you would give me skyf or attempt to explain some wild theory, peering at me over the rim a glass four times the size of your hands. I wish that when you realize I’m not there, your eyebrows sink down to your eyes as the kraken inside you is released. You should break stuff. You should love the sound of shattering glass.

I can hope that you get to smell me sometimes. Maybe on that T shirt or that jacket you still have. Or you could go nuts with the tester of the cologne I wore. I can only hope that you would ignore the strange way people stare, when you’re standing there with your wrist stuck to your nose. I can hope that, your fingers tire and cramp up from making fists with my shirt buried in your hands. You would inhale more than you should, just so you can be a little breathless.

Sitting here; this is what I mean when I say I miss you. I can only hope you mean the same when you say it back.

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