Craving.

   The way she smiled, the way her hair was always so bright, the way her lips moved when she was unsure of something; all the things that made me notice her. She wasn't the kind of person to throw herself, naked, into the middle of traffic- and I liked that about her. The way she walked hid how she talked, and the way she talked hid how she thought. 

   I figured she bundled herself in a quiet grace to protect herself from all of us- but I soon learned how mistaken I was. She was really trying to protect us from her. That factor alone should've scared me, but it only drew me in closer…she was the one holding the glass of water, and I was the thirsting traveler. 

   Something in her eyes captivated me like no one else. Her voice projected honesty, but her eyes screamed lies. I got the privilege to know her, and I used it wisely. Her truths made my heart swell and my blood course through me like a rapid river. It’s funny, I think, how one moment someone can be of no consequence to you, and the next they are the very reason you’re crying, or laughing. The fact that another person can make you feel anything is amazing, to me. 

   There’s a ribbon that surrounds her…like, an invisible ribbon that makes her beautiful. Except, only a few select people will realize it’s there, because they have to get close enough to her to feel it against their skin. Nothing about her captivated me, until I heard her speak. Lightening shot out of her eyes and pierced my skin. I felt my breathing become erratic, and my pulse going haywire. I wanted nothing more than to feel her breath on my neck and for her skin to be pressed against mine- until it wasn't even her skin anymore. It was as if I needed to simply feel her presence. More than that, I needed to hear her words being melodically delivered from those lips, and to see her heart beating within her eyes to prove to me that I wasn't sitting alone. 

   For her to hold my hand in the darkness of the night, and in the brightness of the new morning would be a dream to never wake from. If I could only see the way she lays when she is asleep, or the way she cries when no one is near to hear it, I could go home in joy. She allows me to read her the best I can, but she doesn't allow me to read the preface. How can I savor your sorrows and turn them to joys, if you don’t allow me to touch them? 

   I let her put her hands within me and take all that she could find, and I didn't even require her to have a key. I’m afraid, I really am, that one day she’ll realize there’s nothing left inside of me but rot and filth, and she’ll cry and leave me to mourn among myself. 

She is as light as a summers day, as deep as a snowy trench, and as far away as the moon.