I lie on the bed, moving my fingers absentmindedly over the spot where I still feel your presence. I would give anything for my palm to touch something concrete, to touch your skin. But every time it doesn’t, pain shoots through me; my heart has no more pieces to break and yet the void of you not being here never stops trying, shattering me. How can there be nothing else to give and yet feel like it’s taking everything away from me again? With every single breath?
I move on to my stomach, my face buried in the pillow. A fresh wave of anguish shoots through me as it hits me there is no scent of you left. I rewind to the last moment we were intertwined here, in this exact spot. I don’t want to, it’s too hard, but I can’t help myself; you are engraved in to the very core of who I am.
I fist the sheet. My hand still feels empty because I can’t grab your hair now, messing it up; I can’t palm your face, running my fingers over your stubble.
I hate the t-shirt I’m wearing because it’s not yours. I hate my bed now because there is only me in it. And I hate that I’m tormenting myself with what is left of my memories.
But what is even worse than reminiscing about it now is when sleep renders me helpless and unguarded, leaving my brain and heart open to be tortured with a hallucination that feels so real it makes me wake up in disorientation. Asleep, I can still feel your skin under my fingers, I can still hear your voice calling my name, I can still smell you. I still have you there. So I don’t know what’s worse. What’s better? Not to be awake and have you, waking up to the agonizing realization that’s an illusion? Or to be wide awake, present in the now, and not have to deal with the fresh loss every time I open my eyes, just feeling it simmer under the surface like a shadow?
I don’t know. I just don’t know.
What I do know is this… I hate you because you’ve caused me being in this situation. Because you’ve poured water on my life-loving fire. You’ve changed me.
And I hate myself for loving you despite it all.
I can’t begin to describe what this moment feels like now. After months of writing, of mulling over a word that just didn’t seem right or enough, I just wrote The End in my second contemporary romance novel. And I changed the name from the indefinite Title 2 to an actual title.
There is a storm of emotions inside me – everything from elation of being finished, to sadness for the story of the second book to be concluded. I’m so excited to edit the first draft, have it sent to beta readers and then publish it. My second baby is coming! Tears are brimming in my eyes again right now but I wipe them away because I’m cooler than that. (Not really.)
If anyone would like to participate and help me out as a beta reader, let me know in the comments section or shoot me an e-mail (firstname.lastname@example.org).
Seated around a table, with classical music playing in the back, painted dishes passed from plate to plate. Never a quiet moment, yet also never intriguing. One can’t expect anything different with no essence and just a shell. And she didn’t have high expectations.
She sloshes her wine, resentfully watching the glass whose end is showing. Unlike this meal. There is not enough alcohol at this table, in the world, to make this evening pleasant. Jokingly, she thinks to herself she should be high for this. Not that she would, or that she ever has. But the thick, sticky atmosphere hanging above the dining table, slowly and annoyingly dripping on her is making her restless and miserable. She can feel every. Single. Drop. Drip. Drip.
The guests’ eyes are shooting daggers at each other, sandwiching vile words between politeness leaving their mouths, while fake smiles are plastered on their lips. It makes her stomach twist; she can taste the tension. She glances from one facial mask to the other, disbelief and discomfort gripping her heart. Not one nice thing is said, no compliments and no love.
She inhales her dinner and makes a poor excuse, bolting for the door. It breaks her heart to turn down the dessert but sacrifices need to be made in times like this. She doesn’t care how it may seem, unbelievable or even rude. She needs to get away and never come back. She’s never understood the pretense and she never will. She would never want to.
I’m not actually anti-social. I’m just very selective when it comes to the people I associate myself with because time is precious. And if there is no one that would interest me… Where’s a book?
..so important to me I’m afraid of even attempting to express just what it means to have found you. To have you be mine. To be yours. There are no words powerful enough to epitomize in their meaning exactly what you mean to me.
You are the substitute for air; I’d rather breathe you than oxygen. Every cell in my body has your name written on it. You have touched my heart, my body and my soul. You are the piece to my puzzle that I never knew was missing. You are the reason why I feel complete, why I feel like I’ve finally found my place. My home. I never knew I could ever love someone as much as I love you. Another drop and my heart would cave in under the strain of it, my body splitting in two. The amount feels unbearable and yet existentially pivotal. You are the reason why I wake up in the morning, why I rush home from work, why my mind drifts away from every face and issue in front of me; I can’t stop myself from thinking about you. I don’t want to. You are the night to my day, the light to my darkness.
You are me and I am you. Forever. Even when death do us part.
P.S.: I was writing my second romance novel and the love between my main characters, Alexis and Colton, came over me. I needed to get it out, so here it is.
Hope you have a fantastic weekend!
She gazed through the slits in the blinds, seeing herself in the glass, but not really noticing. She felt the sun touching and warming her skin. She stared into the distance, turned inside, thinking. Around her, the room was going mad – people talking, laughing, screaming. But she was oblivious to it all, turned inwardly into her reverie. Her heart ached, her blood boiling at the thought of her greatest desire. Something so important, enormously significant that in this moment everything paled in comparison. She sighed deeply, wanting to fast forward the time. Wanting to act on her need. Her longing. Her heart called for it. Her soul demanded it…
…A bowl of pasta. Her stomach churned in agreement.
I was planning to post an excerpt from my book and report my progress but after watching a show yesterday I can’t let this go, the stubborn nag in me can’t ignore it. I’ve heard it be said several times and I’m frustrated each and every time; namely, the perception that if you’re a woman and a feminist that means a man doesn’t have to be a gentleman. So if I’m a supporter of equality that means you as a man don’t have to be kind to me, you don’t have to have manners? Pfff.
I’m baffled every time because someone always finds something to exploit; there is always an angle that gets twisted to suit an individual. I don’t get how these two things go hand in hand. It’s a simple fact, and one that does not need much, if any, discussion.
Being a gentleman doesn’t mean women aren’t equal. It means you have good manners, not that I’m less valuable than you. I am nice and polite to a man, and it doesn’t mean I think I’m unequal to you, that you are more than me. I demand being treated equally but that sure as hell does not mean that I won’t open the door for a man or woman, young or old, if I’m the first to reach it; I’ll also offer you refreshments, help, and anything else you might need. I’d just like you to feel good in my company (if you are pleasant towards me).
I don’t think that me being a feminist means that you get to behave poorly. You act kindly and politely towards others because of who you are and not who the other person is. Or am I wrong? (I know I’m not, it’s rhetorical.)
What do you think? Share your thoughts with me 😉