He was gorgeous. His feet graced the floor with an elegant air, his socks muffling the corse carpet. He simply twirled, eyes shut as I sat on the hotel bed and watched.
The hotel was a rickety old building but it was ours. Hazy nights had been spent in the soft cushions, the worn number 93 barely grasping the door.
And I looked up, his pretty lips curling into a taut, vibrant grin. His gleaming eyes seemed to shoot out at me as they opened, his irises never a prettier shade and I loved him.
He walked slowly, his dancing tube socks now balancing carefully on the hotel floor. He sat easily next to me, flicking out a cigarette and match box, eyes glancing hesitantly.
“You want it?” he asked simply, the flame tasting the cigarettes bum. I simply smirked at him, my awe never wavering.
“Hand it over.” He took a short drag before passing it, the stick laying easily in my fingers. I reached over, gently pulling his head to rest in the crook of my neck and I felt whole. I don’t think he’ll ever know what he means to me.
“This is right where it begins,” he whispered, his body still. I glanced at him slightly, trying to push away my eyes from his lips.
“What?” I asked, the words barely leaving my mouth. He breathed deeply and rose, stretching to lean on the head board.
“Us.” I laughed, a stiff laugh because none of this was funny.
“What do you mean? We already have—”
“You know what I mean, Ashley,” he uttered hoarsely, eyes cast down. I stayed silent because I did but I didn’t want to because knowing meant saying things and saying things meant admitting things and I don’t want to tell him I—.
“What was that one poem you wrote?” I forced, my hands beginning to shake. He looked up warily , eyes now lulled over with tension.
“Sky?” I nodded feverishly, a certain something building in my throat. He shrugged.
“Might change it to colors,” he said simply, standing up rigidly. “It’s about you.”
I bit my lip and pulled my legs in. I had a small feeling but I wanted to be sure. And as the words replayed in my head in perfect memory, my chest pounded like a muted drum.
I hummed, snaking my arms around his waist, leaving my head on his shoulder. He was warm and smelled like smoke and good times but he wasn’t mine.
He turned with the grace of a dancer bright eyes bearing into my soul. “You really are something, Ashley.”
All of a sudden my chest clenched and tears ghosted my eyes. He didn’t have to say that, not like that. I know, I know he didn’t mean it like that. But I wanted it to so badly.
“Can we just pretend?” I whispered, my eyes locked on our socked feet. He hummed in confusion but I brushed it off with ease.
“Dance with me,” I whispered skimpy and he pulled me close. We moved with his dancer’s grace but tears wet my face. I love his very being, but I can’t love him.
Not right now.