I See Her Loving Someone Who's Not Me
She stared at me from across the floor with those melted chocolate brown eyes. She twisted the dark truth and turned underneath the moonlight as it covers her body like a blanket. She’s the haze an fog, after it’s rained. Her smile seemingly sneaks in between the cracks of my heart, and her body moves like the wind moves the trees.
Her heart becomes heavy as her chest slowly caves in. She becomes the light all at once, changing everything; everything within her begins to slow. Her fingers are poisonous, but I don’t mind dying in the hands of my killer. A minute or two, and I find god in the hands of my lover.
She becomes a metaphor for everything she does. Nights without her become longer, and I begin to lose myself, but find it in a bottle of Jack. She stains me like red wine on white, her hand grasp around me as if she’s holding her tonic and gin. Her other hand on my face just before she leans in to kiss me.
From across the floor, she sees me. She begins crawling her way over, pushing through the chaos I created, just to make contact with me. Emotions begin to flood my mind like a tsunami and this chemical reaction rushes over my skin. Lying next to me, I hear her thoughts crowd the room that soon becomes a distant memory.
As I become consumed by her eyes and mood, she smells like vanilla. I remember her just as I imagined her coming back, to me. Lying naked, intertwined in my sheets as she fumbles on her words, I swear, lord I swear, she said my name.
Then I realize as I open my eyes,
I’m just a little lonely and just a little drunk. These are just memories that Jack’s making me remember.
She’s filling up her time with someone, anything other than me.
She left through the front door of my life, but her presence is like a ghost that lingers and can’t move on.
I stood there so empty and vulnerable as I watched her leave me behind to love someone else. The stories ending ends with me grabbing my keys and leaving the house before the night is through. Who knows where I’ll go, who knows where the red fern in my mind grows, and who knows if she’ll ever come back to me.
Copyright © Stevie Yost | Year Posted 2016
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