Urges

Dying slowly, inches away from you. Controlling every urge that goes against everything. Willing to bend nature, just to feel your warmth once more.

There she stood, inches away from me.
My god, she's as beautiful as always.
I never forgot how mesmerizing her eyes are. For the longest time, she kept insisting that my dark brown eyes take the show. Little did she know, her black, serene eyes remind me of the infinite vastitude of the heavens. The stars, the asteroids, and everything with it, all moving in melodic harmony. I can't help but succumb to my urge to stare at them, and get entranced by their charming gaze. However I can't help but imagine him, he who stares at her eyes now. Does he look at her the same way as I did? Does he appreciate the beauty of her hypnotic glance? I think to myself and look away.

...

I never forgot how smooth her hair is. She was there, her hair fixed up the way I always wanted her to. How her locks would bounce as she wanders, and how the gentle summer breeze would softly whisk her lost strands, revealing the most beautiful face I have ever seen. I can't help but fight the urge to brush my rough fingertips from her roots to the tip, looking deeply into the windows of her soul. Oh, how her hair grinds perfectly on to my skin, as if the feathers of an angel's wing would brush up against my nose, giving a slight, sensual tickle. Until, I remember him. His rugged forks impale against your scalp, forcing one swift pull, as it hurts you more and more. I was struck my melancholy to think she prepares in the morning for him, looks beautiful for him. I gave a small huff, and looked away.

...

I never forgot how oddly appealing her forhead is. No--don't get me wrong. All this time, she has been insecure with her forehead, stating it's too big. I for one, have always loved it. The way I smother her face with kisses all over, the way I kiss her forehead when we hug. The way I kiss her on the head as she lay sleeping on my arm. I can never miss the mark. I can't help but have the urge to want to kiss it. Get charmed by her soft skin, her hairs tickling the tip of my nose, how an audible sound of a smooch would echo around the room. Then I remember him. Does he do the same? Does he even reassure you with it? I think to myself and look away.

...

I never forgot how dainty her hands are. Her fingers so small and soft, interlocking with mine, forming an unbreakable bond. They would fit in so perfectly, as if they were made for each other, like a key with their assigned lock. I can't help but have the urge to hold them once more. To feel her warm, delicate touch against my solid palms. Then I imagine him. He holds her hands now, and I am forbidden. Like a starving dog caged in front of newly cooked food, I am left there to look, but not touch. The mere idea of this saddened me as I looked away.

...

I never forgot how tempting her lips are. Soft and precious. Pink, with a tinge of light brown by the seams. I can't help but have the urge to lean forward and kiss them. It always sends me to heaven. My lips felt right at home in between hers. Akin to the most precious fabric, woven by the gods themselves. The rim of her mouth, so tender and calm, gliding slowly and softly against my rough, rugged lips. Kissing until we're drunk on each other, to be followed by more intimacy. Memories and future plans mold and be born, shared between the link of two tongues, passionately clashing. He then strikes up in my mind. The idea of him, doing the same we used to is gut wrenching. It kills me as I thought about it. I didn't want to linger on it longer, so I closed my eyes.

...

As I go blind, I can't help but pick up another perception of her.

I never forgot how tiltillating her fragrance is. The sweet scent of freshly bloomed flowers in an open field during spring. The aroma of the summer wind, kissing your skin slowly as the sun beams over everything. The aphrodisiac scent I obssess over whenever our arms intertwine. I can't help but have the urge to kiss her. To hug her. To hold her. I never was able to control myself whenever I smell her. I remembered the last time picked up her aroma, our lips danced across the field of roses, our arms exploring every inch of our bodies, our love burning like the heat of the suns. But this time, I had to hold everything back. I couldn't imagine him on that. Maybe I unconsciously chose not to, because doing so, might destroy every little thing that's left of me.

I held my breath.

...

So this is what it's like. Death. Nothingness. Emptiness. The love of my life, right in front of me, within arms reach. A mere attempt to touch her, to hold her... would mean dire consequences. I would risk it all. Be it a major injury, or death.
I'd risk it all.
Everything about her manages to correlate an urge, and that's completely understandable.

What kills me the most, is that I can't sate those urges.
What kills me the most, is that urges turned to forbidden desires.

Author's Note

Excuse the long... poem. I wanted to specify how enthralled I always become when I see her.