Him and I


Ben BlennerhassettUnsplash

I wake up and BAM. There’s a train of thoughts in my hands. They must have spilled from my mind over these tear-drenched sheets.

A vivid dream of him and I. It’s stretched out in front of me, clear as a clear blue sky.

I try to get up and function, like what normal people do, but I get hit with a fresh new slew of thoughts too real once I do.

Because I can’t stop thinking about him and oh… Look! Wait… I’m on the train. He’s in my brain. He’s in the soles of my feet and the touch of my veins.

Here we go again. Broken hearts and broken strings.

But his smile is golden, and his cards are solid. He plays them like sonics. Isn’t it ironic? That you can love someone you’ve never touched, your lips never brushed, the sounds of your voices were not one in time.

But I hear his voice all the time. I see him in every face in every crowd. My thoughts scream his name aloud. They torture me with poison and the toxic smell of his scent. My mind is not for rent.

It’s been broken into and robbed. Peace and clarity have said goodbye. I see a bird’s-eye of how time flies when he’s in proximity of my flesh.

A breath of fresh air sweeps by when he looks my way. Every inch of my body screams: STAY.

Stay and play with my hair. Look into my eyes. Challenge my stare. Let me dream, live and dare to dive in you. We can take it easy. I’ll count one through two.

Let me see your demons. Let me kill them with love. I promise I’ll fix you with every breath and every touch.

But you, my darling, have chosen to recede. Apparently, you were never interested in me. A shame indeed.

A shame because now that I have this new information, I still can’t stop thinking about you.

The thoughts have been born anew, but cognition has gotten darker. My mind is now composed of the black hole of you.

Every girl you flirt with is a stab in my flesh. Her body is something you wish to acquire and I am not your cup of desire.

She has everything I cannot have: Your attention, your interest and your turbulent lust. Unattainable for me, but for her, it’s a snap of the finger, a quick easy trust.

I am drowning and you, don’t care if I do. I cry in these hallways and you see me, you do. But you check up on her, not the girl with the wound.

And it hurts me, my love, that I could perish this instance and you don’t care if I do.

You don’t think about me, you don’t wonder if I’m alright. And yet, you’re all that crosses my overcrowded mind at night.

The hopes you smashed beneath your feet were mine. The dreams I had of you and I were mine. The care, love and lust we could have shared were mine and mine alone. They were just deranged delusions of my own.

Borderline intoxicating are the mental images of your skin on my breath that will never come true.

Honey, you don’t want me, but I can’t stop wanting you. You don’t want me, you don’t want me, but I’ll always do.


Him and I was originally published in This Glorious Mess on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.



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