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I tell myself not to look for you---it’s a foolish, pointless, futile thing to do. After all, my eyes never have stopped searching for you. They were born with a purpose: to find you, to seek you out, to pluck you up from the middle of a messy crowd; you are an apple, and I am on the lookout for the perfect fruit.
But you are not perfect. I tell myself that too. Only, I don’t believe it. How could I? With your crooked glasses and slanted smile and washed-out teeth, you are the embodiment of flawless imperfections. And you tell me that you love me, which makes you braver than any man could ever possibly be.
Eventually, I find you, and I bite my tongue, willing myself not to call your name. But I do anyway. Because, I have never spoken any other name nicer than yours.
And because, your lips taste like the sun, and I have seen too much rain in my lifetime. I yearn to drink light. Light that you have. It is overflowing out of you. But I don’t think you can give any to me. After all, it is your light, and just wouldn’t look right inside anybody else---including me, even though you once said that we are the same person.
A lie, I know. Because, I refuse to be tied down. I refuse to be attached to somebody.
Even though…I really, really do love you.
And I think my sole purpose in life isn’t to keep running away from myself, but to love you.
And there you are. I am a siren, and you are a sailor, and you come when I call. Although, sirens are beautiful, and they can sing. So, I am simply a flawed human.
“Alice.” My name has never sounded any lovelier than it does when dripping from your mouth.
I want to embrace you. Kiss me. Kiss me. You don’t kiss me though. But you do hold me. “I miss you,” I tell your shoulder. You’re right here, but I still miss you.
Only, you think I spoke in the past tense. That I said I missed you. Which is what you murmur into my soft hair (only soft for you): “I missed you too. But I’m back now.”
I nod, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying. I don’t know why I feel like crying. But I think it might have something to do with the fact that I always miss you. Because, no matter how close you are, you always seem so far away. And, I reach out for you, but you’re never there. Like a ghost. Or stars. Only, prettier. And I love you more.
I run my hands along the frayed edges of your suede coat. I’ve missed that coat. And I still miss that coat. It is a part of you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it without you, and vice versa. I used to think that you loved that coat more than me, and I still think that sometimes. After all, why would you love me? It’s very difficult to. I know that. I’ve been told that---although, only by myself. But still. Being a right is a very occurrence---in fact, I’m almost never right. But I am right about this. I know that.
You hold out your hand. “Ready to go home?”
I nod. “Yup.”
We leave the train station. It’s raining, but we don’t run. We like the rain as it softly drips down our skin, swims across it, cleanses us. There’s a refreshing sort of beauty in rain that we both are aware of, but never actually talk about. Yet, once we reach it, we still get into the car (albeit reluctantly).
And then, inside the car, silence. I don’t want to break it. I don’t want to slice it open. I never want to see anything bleed (except for, maybe, me). But still… “How’d the tour go?”