I think it’s love with me. Not just pennyworth body that has accidentally spread beneath you. It’s when I don’t think of anybody else but her. Like 220 volts are pumping in my veins to burst them and still I want more. I want it to be at least 550V. High voltage. I don’t want to restrict myself with anything that I’m supposed to think of. I don’t want to imagine the moment she leaves. I don’t want to think. I need to act. I want to hold her, talk to her, touching her exquisite wrist, going up across her forearm to her shoulder. I want to hear her breathe so close that I feel it. I strive to kiss her, and kiss her once again and talk inbetween. In a low voice, looking into her misty jade eyes. When I go to bed, I dream of her leaning back and saying “You aren’t going anywhere”. Weaving her fingers into mine and pulling me towards her. I want to keep every single moment of hers, I feel my fingertips burn and suck in the new sensation of that cool ivory skin. That’s what she is. A miracle, a sweet torture, an abyss of flames and a soothing music at once. The only one.
That’s what makes it all half-senseless, half-colour. Her absence. It’s no university, it’s another 6 hours of dreams and sudden memories. It’s senses blasting in need of her. It is half-life without her, and life at its utmost when she just looks at me. Some 3 days ago, I’d never think there might be a person I could say “I love you to”. Now that there is one, I feel those words are useless. They’ll never say what I feel, too empty, too hollowed out. It’s not about words, it’s about touch, as sharp as a scream. About letting each other be what we are. I … you.