Falling in love, with words

Sometimes, when I miss him too much, I go back and read what he's written. Over and over again. Then I feel as if he's right there, talking to me. Because it's always been that way, when I read what he writes - I feel like he's right there, talking to me.

And when I read him, I am reminded all over again, why I love him so. He makes me smile, he makes me laugh, he makes me frown, he makes me cry. Because it's always been that way, when I read what he writes - I feel like he's right there, touching my heart.

And I never did tell him how much I love him, how much he made me feel again. And I never will tell him how much I love him, and always will. Because it's always been that way, when I read what he writes - He's never really there.

Denial

"i just think that sometimes, you don't want to "try" anything with the other person, but still you can't help doing certain things that show you like them"

What's in a smile, in a laugh, in a moment in time when someone says something that strikes you as funny, and you begin to laugh prematurely with that hyperacute yet atypical sense of humour that has never stood you in good stead - and realise the person next to you has started to laugh as well?

What's in minor moments of mutuality that mean nothing on their own - liking the same foods, disliking the same aspects of people, and a country, thinking the same thoughts - being asked if you were thinking.... and knowing that no question, but rather an observation was this.

What's in that instant when you find yourself turning unconsciously to look that other person in the eye as a sitcom moment unfolds and find her turning to you?

The answer :

Familiarity.

Nothing more.
Nothing less.

Perhaps familiarity breeds contempt; perhaps friendship. Perhaps it takes time to develop with some; yet with others - almost as if we are near-duplicates of some celestial template - it flares up instantaneously from the first hello.

Perhaps we can't help turning and looking that other person in the eye at that precise instant; perhaps we can't help but laugh, or be struck by odd similarities. Perhaps we can't stop ourselves leaning in metaphorically, against our wills.

But what of it?

Perhaps sometimes it is best that familiarity breed nothing more, and nothing less, than a friendship that might endure - rather than a hedonistic ' madness that will be forgotten with the passage of time, and hurt.

Unexpected

He studied her face appraisingly.
It was beginning to dawn increasingly on him that she was very attractive.

It wasn't simply about appearances - a previous girl vaguely involved in his confused past - and surprisingly cynical beyond her years - had casually thrown that postulate at him over dinner : ultimately, attraction is all about looks, no? He had rebelled instinctively - and only in part because he had felt she was insinuating something shallow in himself, with respect to their then-relationship... In truth, he had always wanted to believe he was atypical, someone with more substance in his soul than fleeting himbotic superficiality. Someone... more than the average, pathetic horny man she was so casually dismissing. In retrospect, he realised that it had been she who had been truly shallow.

He had noticed that she was pretty before, over lunch by the Old Market by the riviera. It would have taken a blind man not to notice that fair skin set against the long, flowing black hair, and the delicate, yet pointed - feline - jawline set below those dark, almond eyes.

It hadn't meant that much to him then. The encounter had been brief, and born of a mutual need to simply while away time. Their companies had been thrown casually together, and they had passed the time as strangers would, lightly tasting each other's thoughts without really engaging each other.

Tonight was different.

As she spoke of her life and her past, he found his eyes straying over hers... he found his interest piqued. He discovered an irrepressible spirit and courage. She had a thirst for knowledge beyond her confines and the tenacity to chase it down. She parried his little jokes with deft ease and riposted with well-timed counters, some immediate, some delayed till much later, all delivered with impeccable timing at just the right instant.

She was utterly unexpected.

He absently traced the countours of her eyes with his gaze, and realised with a shock how beautiful they were.

A self-styled casanova friend of his had once declared that all women have beautiful eyes : it only takes for you to see it, and tell them so.

But the truth is, for us mere mortals - we only see beauty in the eyes of a few women, and we only tell a fleeting few of these what we see - because we do not search for it in the others. Life would become far too complicated if we did.

Her eyes were communicative and sought his out whenever they laughed together, which was often - and sometimes when they didn't, which was less often. He found himself searching them out time and time again, lingering for a moment as something unspoken and inexpressible - yet intuitive and eloquent passed between his mind and hers.

She had the eyes of the Watcher.

He didn't watch to see if anyone else was looking at her, or at him looking at her. Tonight it didn't matter at all.

*****

Later that evening as they parted company he offered her and her companions a lift home. They clustered on the far side of his car around her, standing in turn before the passenger door.

He watched as they paused, looking first at her, and then him, and then shyly demurring and turning away, even as she turned towards him and looked him in the eye.

The words were soft, but clearly spoken.

Her tone of voice was a gentle command at odds with the subtle, tentative arch of her brow.

"Take me home."

Shuttered eyes

It is not that my eyes do not speak to you.

It is I, that does not want to open up to you.

And so, my eyes give not my feelings away.

The Look

(Writer's note: Only because I can no longer speak my mind as freely as I wish on my own blog, because certain intimacies are not meant to be shared with friends.)

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"hey, another way of good flirting is to look deep into the eyes ..."

He had only just read about the performance and seemed amused by it all; he thought it sounded like I had a 'stimulating' time. He was reminded of Tina Turner who used to describe her performances as 'orgasmic' experiences.

"I wish!" I laughed at his words and the rather inappropriate thoughts that popped into my head while I was still - supposedly - hard at work. I said it had been a rather surreal and unusual first-time experience, and a lot of fun, but I most certainly did not come close to an orgasm. (Not too sure about the 'prop' though - I forgot to look where my hands were going because I was trying not to forget my steps.)

And I offered that if the 'prop' had asked me to go out, I would have.

What I really meant was that if the 'prop' had invited me back to his place, I would have followed him home. (But he did not, which is probably a very good thing.)

Look away

It is with a soft sigh that I look away, for the last time.

His eyes do not speak to me. His intentions, hidden behind a cloud of confusion, make not themselves known to me.

I do not want to search anymore. My searches, they yield... nothing.

And in these vacuous spaces, it is all too easy to bow my head low, and look away.

Touch me

I just need to be touched.

I shivered as his fingers traced a path up my thigh, slowly, lifting my skirt. As he slipped his hand under my blouse. As he traced the curves of my body.

Touch me.

Caressing, gently. Stroking, all over. Feeling... a strange love. And it is a strange love indeed, for a friend who turns lover, if only for one night.

And in the morning, I bade him farewell. Friends, once again. Friends, as always.