Friday, June 8

Pyloric Romance

Everyone assures me it's platonic. It isn't. Platonic is I care about you and I want to help you with your homework and know everything that happens with you and all your girlfriends and I want to keep you safe and spend time with you and know you're happy, while at the same time having a completely separate life on my own with separate relationships and separate events.

Not this.

Platonic is the kind of relationship you have with a brother or a sister or a good friend you've known your entire life and couldn't see yourself thinking any differently of.

Not this.

Platonic is a cop out. "I love him, but it's only platonic. He's like a brother to me." is a symptom of a girl with no hope left. A lie she tells others in hope that she'll someday believe herself.

She wishes she was gullible enough to believe the lies she tells herself.

Not this.

I am one hundred and infinity percent sure that none of that applies to me. I care and I want happiness for him.

But all I want is him. I just want to latch on and never let go until I'm completely absorbed and living unnoticed and incarnated as a pillow-soft cushion to take the strain off his heart. I go to sleep thinking about him. I wake up thinking about him. I spend my nights dreaming and my days noting all of my life events to be later told in a dramatic fashion in hope that they might ignite a smile or chortled laugh from him. I live for those moments and those moments alone. That is my livelihood. I see no other way.

I would live this way a thousand years, nursing that burning hope deep inside me and preying on every scrap of compassion and inclusion he sent my way.

He owns me. His choice of phrasings can build me or break me. His wants and needs unconsciously become my own. I follow him loyally and make sure the hem of his robe never touches unworthy ground.

I wouldn't change it for anything.
I couldn't want more, unless to have him turn and lift me from the ground with ambition to hold me for eternity. Or, even for a moment. I'd gladly drop back down to my knees.

Every time I touch you a fire ignites in my fingertips and runs it's course through my body jostling nerves I'd forgotten existed and waking the butterflies that hibernate in my rugae.