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We lay there, silent, a thin sheet of cloth entangles our bodies, trapping us there to give fleeting thoughts of the mistakes we had just made.
He reaches over and takes the pack of cigarettes, sitting up, holding the light in one hand. I always tell him not to smoke inside, the smell is slightly too familiar, but I care not to muse him about it now. I watch as he takes a puff, the smoke curls up and his head falls back, a sigh escapes his lips.
“Pass me one.”
“I thought you stopped smoking”
“Old habits die hard”
The habits he has introduced me to, the ones I took up and the ones I could never let go of.
We laugh, could you call it a laugh? It’s cynical and twisted, we know the meaning behind it. we both know how this story goes, the plot has been spoiled too many times, yet we indulge ourselves, act blindly, cave in to the curiosity, of maybe something different will happen. Yet will we act surprised when the story never changes?Will a bitter taste fill our mouths as we realise a sad story, has just as much of a sad ending? I wonder.
“We should stop this” i heard the waver in my voice, so did he.
“Why would we stop this?” There he goes again, I’m not sure why I expect any less, we both live for this corrupt game that we’ve played for so long.
“I don’t want to hurt you or anybody else” lies. both of us know the type of people we are, we live in a world where if you escape, you’ll be hurt.
He stared at me, flames of amusement danced in his eyes. His beautiful eyes, after all these years they were still breath taking, but they had changed. When we first met, they were clear and mischievous, brimming with trouble; now they’re clouded and experienced, overflowing with years of regrets. The melancholy was intriguing, I’ve had that look for so many years, maybe I enjoy seeing someone endure this spiral of sadness with me. That sounds like something I would be entertained by, it may seem unthinkable, but he is the same as me and my corrupt ways, we had made each other like this.
His lips are on mine, I never understand why people say they feel fireworks when they kiss, maybe I experienced that once when I was young, the memories aren’t vivid.
I kiss back.
This isn’t some fairytale, we aren’t children anymore, I wonder when I truly realised that. I want to cry, wish back to when everything was new and exciting, when I had first met him, maybe we could have done something different, maybe things wouldn’t have come to this somber part in the story. Our relationship is built with damaged blocks of greed, jealousy and habit. I try to cry, I’ve been trying to cry for so long, but I can’t help but laugh at the thought of my relationship with him, it’s pathetic.
I’m not sure what’s happening, I don’t focus on him, I just let him kiss me.
I wouldn’t call this love. I don’t think love is for either of us, we’re damaged toys, past the point of repair. Have I ever loved him? Maybe at one point, I did, but I never had the time to think or act on it. We moved so quickly, everything was a rush, we were dumb teens, wanting to live life however we wanted. Even if I did love him, what would have changed? Added a year, at most, of artificial happiness? We would have come to this conclusion, regardless.
I think about our past a lot, the childish side of me tries to ignore parts of it, but it never works, the rose coloured glasses have been broken for too long to be of any help.
He’s stopped kissing me now, but I still crave his warmth, I yearn for at least a sense of normality, so I climb into his arms and listen to the steady beat of his heart.
We both know that this is it, we sleep with whoever we want, we agree not to talk about it to each other, but in the end, I will always end up in his arms.