There’s always that point at which you realize everything you’re doing needs to be as for yourself as possible, until it isn’t.
I find myself dreaming of the touch of someone who, quite frankly, doesn’t exist. I’m not exaggerating when I say she’s exactly like Melanie–short, thin, off-white skin, cheekbones, the same kind of dueling sincerity and fear in her eyes, her smile, and a voice as sweet at a stolen kiss in the misty, foggy dark.
The kind of people that stick with me, the kinds of people who occupy space in my heart, never make sense to anyone else. There are the people with whom I end up, the women that have that combination of willingness and comfort, but then there are the ones that see the world somewhat like I do, only they look at it with an affected fearlessness that I can’t even pretend, they attack it with something as if it needs to be held at bay if not outright conquered lest it conquer them first. I could never do that, and that’s why Melanie sticks with me so much–she was afraid, and confused, and had no idea what to do with the world in front of her, and that fear pushed her in all the wrong directions and tore at her and distorted her into something.
Even though we only dated two months, even though that “dating” was some kind of fucked-up, odd thing that really shouldn’t have warranted any connection, she is imprinted on me in a way I can’t fully describe, and that’s the reason why I can’t call complete bullshit on someone when they talk about their “soulmate.” I don’t believe in that shit, but then again, someone I barely knew and barely held to me is someone I will keep in my heart forever.
Time’s up.
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