You were never mine, no.
You refused to be owned, no matter how many times I asked. You were slippery, flimsy_ an escapist. It was thrilling, frustrating and painful to watch how you frolicked across my life, like a cub in a field of dandelions. You made me nostalgic, how I missed you even when you lay right next to me, holding me to your chest, your hair caressing my face. I could never get close enough to feel close to you. I needed better.
I needed you deeper.
Your kisses were like torture_ feather light and shallow, like eating cotton candy. You made me hungry.
You made me thirsty.
You made me greedy.
When you touched me, it was like you were not touching at all. I wanted your hands all over, your fingers exploring every curve of my body. I craved for you to explore me, to take your time with it, till I was stated under your gaze.
There were times when I transcended to your level and agreed with your philosophies. Love, really, was a wild fire. We did not need labels to tell us who we are. I found myself grateful, to not be tied to you, the world spread out under my feet, free to do as I pleased.
I found love, many times.
I found men who pulled chairs, sent a dozen roses and taught me how to hold a fork right. Cliché things you didn’t quite think were important to me. I enjoyed these moments. There is a joy to being desired_ being adored. It is the crown of womanhood. A vanity we can’t live without.
Yet, as this bed of roses began to bloom, I always found myself musing over you. You and your formidable bedroom eyes, wicked smiles and a frame so lean it made me want to hug you softly. You with your bored expressions, lazy drawl for a voice and the laugh of a man too good for the rest of the world.
As the other suitors sang poetry, dropped flowers and broke a leg performing their mating dances, I lay on my bed, wondering what about you, I had not explored yet.
There was always something with you and me.
A string left loose.
A page not read.
A statement not explained.
A goodbye not said.
We always lacked closure.
Even as I write this, I wonder. Would it have been different if I tied you to the bed? Maybe I should not have let you be in control all the time. What if I had showed up, unannounced, lingerie under a wine-red trench coat and yanked you off that damn laptop and had you, right in the middle of your living room floor?
Would that have made a difference?
Every single time, there was always a part of me that you left unexplored.
Plot holes and cliff hangers.
Like a badly written story.
A viscous circle.
A furiously spinning eddy.
By Mercy Pheona, the musings of Mercy Pheona