There I was, drowning myself with my tears. "He doesn't know how to dance" I say, "he's not all that" I say, but the truth is that it doesn't matter to me. What does matter to me are his hands, the way he would touch my face with them. How my cold, lonely neck could turn warm and tingly with just a slight graze of his soft fingers, or how he would touch my thighs, squeezing them, making me feel ways I know I shouldn't but couldn't help.
Now, he's not there to do so. He'll be there to give me a pat on the shoulder, perhaps a smile, or ask "are you okay?" but never again those hugs, or cuddles, or simply feeling his gentle breath on my neck, not even the simple actions that made me feel like I was floating, the ones that made me smile non-stop. I worry everyday that you will like somebody, truly like them, and instead of me being the one to feel your soft hands it will be somebody else; maybe a pretty blonde girl, most likely a pretty blonde girl.
You were never my boyfriend, I know you weren't, but the slight hope of somebody wanting me that way, somebody liking me enough to feel that way about me gave me hope. I thought you were helping me, turns out that you were just ruining me more than I thought. Because of you I was sobbing, sobbing so much that whoever heard me might've thought that the happiness was sucked away from my soul but, despite of all this, I still miss you.
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It's short, I know but it's just some of my thoughts written down.
YOU ARE READING
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐎𝐟 𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬
Non-FictionThis book are just words that I think which I'll never be able to say. Perhaps, this will comfort people like me, people who struggle with their words.
