A Brush with Unrequited Love
She always looks so beautiful in the morning; her hair unkempt, her eyes heavy and unfocused. The way she makes her way toward me, almost gliding, unaware and detached, I often wonder if she'll remember to find me; remember that I'm waiting for her. I spend my days waiting, though I know exactly when I'll see her. We have a routine. It's comforting and agonizing all at once, the knowledge of exactly when each day I'll be able to feel her hand around me, the stroke of her lips, the warmth of her mouth. Each day seems to draw out slower than the last. The minutes I count are endless, and there are times when I fear the sun will never set, and the night won't bring her back to me.
I see her as often as I can, though the world makes our distance impenetrable. Between doorways, behind glass, I catch a glimpse of her smile. Her teeth partially seen, glistening through the rounding of her smooth, pink lips, and I am entranced. They fold and unfold across white, near translucent pearls, widening as she laughs, exposing a mouth I so long to be inside. I imagine feeling every inch of it around me; tickling her tongue, grazing past her lips, her teeth gentle and euphoric. It's all I can do not to immerse myself in these fantasies, hour by hour, anxious for them to manifest.
I know I'm not her first; I'd be a fool to believe there weren't others before me. Even now, I see my reflection and wonder how long until she notices my roughening of age. How long before I begin to feel too used, ineffective, my touch forced and resultless.
There have been nights when I don't see her; sometimes even mornings. Days may pass before she returns only to look right past me. Not a single thought in her mind do I possess, nor motion do I encourage. I've become invisible. She smells the way I'm meant to make her smell. Her smile is sharp, but not from me.
She comes to me in clothes from nights prior, as if parading the notion that I am no longer needed. I dare not wonder where she’s been or where she’ll go; I do not care to know. I’ve been hers long enough to know it’s not forever. I’ve watched her long enough to see myself dissipate.
These passing days without her have grown. Our routine has shifted, a collapse I fear is imminent. I find myself alone, with time so stagnant that counting it at all has lost its purpose. The moments we are together, I am withdrawn. Worried I'll be left again, plagued with the conclusion of our end.
But by passing chance, I see her smile. Her beauty bleeds through worried cracks and I woefully remain, helplessly hopeful. For what more can be done; what more could I possibly do with the infinite time she has forsaken me with?