That Old Black Magic
I hear she still complains about me. I hear she couldn’t get past the fact that I wouldn’t sleep with her, or even kiss her. It wasn’t from a lack of desire.
She spent weeks bitching about me to a friend. He wanted her, and couldn’t get past me. Neither of them could. He because she was dwelling on me, and her because. . . well, I don’t really know.
I still think of her, my thoughts lingering over her wavy blonde hair, my heart skipping a beat when I meditate upon her lips. I miss her.
Some of my friends didn’t like her. “Shallow” they said; “fluffy” they hollered; “scary” they whispered.
It’s been a while since I wrestled her to the ground, since I touched her lips, since I lay in her bed bleeding. It’s been too long, and definitely not long enough.
She still has something of mine. Can I look her up? Would she talk to me? Is she even around? Does she read this now?
She never got what she wanted from me, and I never got what I wanted from her. Most people don’t understand how I related to her, and how I wanted to relate to her. They never understood the things I saw in her: the beauty and the purity she hid so well.
I miss her now. It’s a bit empty here, but she’s out of my life, and beyond my reach.
