Not lust, but not quite love.
It’s not lust, it’s more. It’s not love, it’s less. It’s not wanting to be with you for the rest of my life, but wanting you and only you for a specific moment. It’s less destructive and more honest. I know I can live my separate life without you, and I have done it, but when we are together, oh god, are we ever together. The way my head fits perfectly in the crook of your neck and our breaths lap into the same pattern. The way you fall perfectly into my arms when I play with your hair. I can be perfectly fine without you, but the moment you present yourself in front of my eyes, I can literally feel the many emotions bouncing around in my chest. This isn’t me wanting to see you down the aisle one day, but simply hoping for a dance one day. It’s not me wishing we could lose our virginity to each other, it’s me hoping you find me sexy in the lingerie I bought for you.
It’s me finding the comfort in your constant text messages. It’s me re-assuring you you’re gonna be okay. It’s being able to call you my best friend and then kiss you. It’s me not always wanting to see you and wanting my own space. It’s being able to kiss other people, but not have to hear about it the next morning. It’s being able to do fun date-like things with you, except it’s not a date. It’s me being able to say I love you, but with no strings attached. It’s everything you could ever want from a relationship, except it’s not a relationship.
This isn’t my profession of love to you. Because I’m not. Maybe I do, I’m not sure. If I do come to the conclusion one day that I do, I will not tell a soul. For once in my life, this is a secret I want to keep contently. I may love you, but do I want to be with you in all those superficial ways, have to hold your hand in the hallway and wish you goodnight? Maybe that would be nice on occasion, but everyday? For the next year or so? I don’t need that. I’m content with how things are. Why should I mess that up by admitting feelings? Feelings aren’t real, they’re pigments of our imagination on how we observe and absorb different situations. I enjoy when you kiss my hand and compare me to art, but I don’t need you, just like I don’t need your love to be complete.
I tell myself this, and I believe it, I really do, but, in the moment, sometimes it’s hard to digest. I get this crazy feeling, that maybe I’m pushing you away for other reasons. Maybe I’m scared of something, of you having the power to hurt me, of being vulnerable. I start getting these feelings that maybe I’m making you wait for me. And then these feelings haunt me for a few hours, and I can’t sleep and I feel like a house but not a home. It’s not a crime to smile, see the light or be happy. It’s not a crime to let myself fall for you, I remind myself.
And then I snap out of it, and we’re back in the routine of racy pictures and sweet phone calls, ignoring each other at school yet hoping for a kiss from time to time. And I see you laugh when I’m on top of you, and you quickly kiss me, and I know I want you. But, not like that. Not in the traditional way. In a way that’s all new and foreign to me and to you, in a way I can’t describe by sex or love. A halfway mark, perhaps. A perhaps. That’s the perfect way to describe it. Always being able to wonder what if, but not regretting what happened.
A perhaps.
A question mark sketched into my brain.
A locked treasure chest I threw away the keys to a long time ago.
A diary in my mind that I refuse to read the pages of.
A secret to be kept.
