Held.

It had been so long since she had held him, or since he had held her; either no more less or significant than the other. She remembered what it felt like for his strong arms to embrace her frame with just enough pressure to neither bring her discomfort nor dissatisfy her. She remembered how warm he was, how the heat of his body had clung to her skin hours after he released her from his grasp. She remembered what it felt like for her to press the side of her face against his chest, still feeling him beneath his clothing.
He held her, merely three days ago. She holds her cheek, now, still feeling the warmth of his body against the side of her face that had been so carefully placed in the cavity of his chest. Her ear still continues to feel hot, and her eyelashes still have the sensation of brushing against his soft shirt. She felt his arms entangle her torso, his tall frame slightly bending to meet her shorter one, but leaving as little room as possible between them. She remembered feeling the slight rumble of his low voice through his chest as he spoke to her while holding her.
Him holding her is more significant than her ever holding him, she has now just come to realize. Because she had dreamt of holding him again for years and had every ability of doing so in her mind, grasping onto the echos and remnants of the sensation from years ago. But nothing could replace the new sensation that came about when he moved forward to embrace her. It was unlike anything she had felt years ago, because of the depravity she had had of him. The man that held her three days ago was still the boy that held her three years ago, and that made all the difference. Because she was not expecting that.

Obsessed; absolutely mad.

May 21, 2011
She was obsessed; absolutely mad. Summer hit her like a brick wall – solid and unmoving – and the impact was terrible.  With a rush of warm air, it was back, and so was he.  There was this smell among them all; a sweet stench so recognizable, yet completely unexplainable.  The sun beat down and left the familiar feeling on her skin – dry, warm, tingling.  Not knowing what a massive mistake it would be, she listened to a song – it tore her apart.  The notes pierced her ears, and ran through her gut – this was sacred, this was not meant to be heard. How dare she? 

The presence of the circumstance attacked her from every direction; nowhere was she safe.  Everything was done for one purpose – it was hauntingly wrong.  Priorities were lost, dreams and hopes mutated into desperation. 

She was obsessed; absolutely mad.  Yet she lived for it.  The memories drenched her like boiling water, and scorched her until she was destroyed.  But she was addicted.

The desires of her heart were impure – they forced her to do wrong.  And she did wrong. And she did wrong. And she did wrong.

When everything was still, she was anxious. When everything was moving, she was overwhelmed. Nothing could be done right.

Moments in her life brought utter peace - half of her hated those moments. She was obsessed; absolutely mad. She needed her fix, and she believed the fix needed her. Needed her. Not wanted, not desired, not even longed for. Needed. And yet, she didn’t even know if the fix wanted or desired or longed for her.  But she was delusional – she would believe what she wanted.

So she hid in her mind; in her imagination she took rest.  It was the only thing that could save her from this rush of summer.  This rush of love.  This rush of obsession. She was obsessed; absolutely mad.

Hair.

June 5, 2011
Hair was his favorite; it fascinated him and aroused his senses. His strong hands loved to stroke the gentle fine waves that cascaded down her head. He didn’t do this often – he feared she would be upset – but he wanted to. She knew it. Her intoxicating smell would surround her hair, like a warm aura. She would move her head so her hair would catch the light just right, she would tease him by pulling it over her shoulder and running through it with her fingers, or allow it to rush away from her face as she clumsily ran. Occasionally, she would braid the hair out of her face, and tie it in a messy knot on the back of her head. She didn’t want the hair to get in his mouth when he kissed her, she didn’t want him to see her hair; she wanted him to see her.

He came back to her and her broken heart, only half of what she was before. She wanted him to go away, yet she wanted him to be attracted to her. She wanted him to see her. She took the scissors to her hair, and watched as the beautiful waves cascaded to the floor.

Guilt.

May 30, 2011
She was so sorry. Guilt built up in her chest and grew until it was as heavy as a stone. It weighed down her insides and would slowly release in tears – slowly, slowly, slowly. It wasn’t fast enough.

She tore into his memory like a murderer. Her words clawed his reputation like her hands once clawed his back and chest – full of passion, ecstasy. She took every measure possible to justify her reasoning – but justifying something unjustifiable is sin. So she had a rock in her stomach.

She would occasionally build upon that rock; she was set off too easily. But, soon, her eyes would be open again. Soon, she would remember why she loved him. Soon, the emotions began to leak through her eyes, the rock throbbed, the guilt continued. She was so sorry.

She wanted to apologize to him for something that was not even in his knowledge. She was irrational. She had this starvation caused by excess; the rock rose to her throat in a lump of pain. She had dehumanized him so that she could dehumanize herself; she could justify this heartbreak.

Soon, the stone began to roll in her stomach, until it destroyed her. She deserved it. She had destroyed him.

And then it hit her.

June 17, 2011

Like an uncontrollable train on a track, the realization smacked her so hard that she toppled over in pain. Her heart ached. Tears streamed down her cheeks. The moment was here. The moment where everything changed. She said goodbye to the ones she loved. The ones she loved. The ones she loved. She stepped back and looked at them all; a unit. She said goodbye to this. To them. To us. She said goodbye to every memory. And the memories ached in her chest. The longing became unbearable. The realization became shocking. The impact was far too severe for her to even fathom the end result. It was over. It was done. It had hit her.

A Drill.

May 22, 2011
A Drill. So powerful. A drill can break down walls of brick. Of stone. Of doubt.

What is the opposite of faith? By her doubt she believed it so; it was that time she felt weakness. Her desires lay elsewhere. Frustration sunk in her chest. Suffocation took over her as her longing strayed to things of wrong, things that Chosen Ones are not meant to stray to.

She banged on the glass as it became opaque; she clawed at the fence as it began to increase in height. Her hands bled as the fence cut them, and the blood smeared on the once translucent glass. Desperation. In order to break through to her place of rest and belonging, she needed a drill. A drill so powerful that has the means to break doubt.

She looked back.

July 22, 2011

She looked back.

Over her shoulder.

Just to check.

Just to see if it still hurt.

Just to see if he was still there.

Just to see the memories.

They were lost.

They were gone.

The good was replaced with the bad.

The beauty of it disappeared.

She lived for now.

She lived for tomorrow.

She could no longer see them.

She could no longer see him.

She listened to a song.

How dare she?

How dare she test it?

Test the peace.

Test the tranquility.

Test the ease of her mind.

But it didn’t matter.

The song meant nothing.

Nothing more than itself.

The song wrote out its own stories.

She was free.