He held out his hand so she could efficiently enter the raised surface of the car
His hand flexed as he extended his fingers while walking away from the car that he had helped Elizabeth into
The action was simple
Not warranting of stretching your hand out as if it had gone through an action that caused it fatigue or tightness
I remember watching his hand flex, the veins protruding, clench of his jaw following closely after
Has anyone ever flexed their hand after touching me?
Has anyone ever turned away from me with such eagerness because they were tormented with fantasies of what they would do if we held each other's gaze for just a millisecond more?
Has anyone ever stormed away from me and put themselves through intense suffering just to avoid a mere second of peace and quiet that they know would quickly be pervaded by thoughts of me?
Has anyone ever clenched their jaw after breathing the same air as me because my scent invaded every crevice of their thoughts and being in my presence became suffocating in the best way?
Has anyone ever held themselves back from helping me because they knew they'd never be able to go back to the version of them that wasn't always going to be there if I ever needed them?
Has anyone ever touched me and recoiled almost instinctually as if they'd been burnt by the realization that they never wanted to touch anyone who wasn't me ever again?
Will anyone ever?
YOU ARE READING
paradoxical
Poetryyears worth of teenage and young adult angst transferred from a ratty old notebook to this app --for anyone who also feels like everything they do contradicts the personality that they desire to be perceived as
