reverent

Prologue

He stands there, awaiting... awaiting.

And I come to him, giving him exactly what he wants. He wants me, all of me, to suck me in whole, to call me his. Why is that? Because he loves me, he says. In hushed whispers that tickles the lobes of my ears, he says he loves me. Do I believe that? As a matter of fact, I do not. I do not trust his words, when actions speak louder than words.

His actions do not speak of love.

The first touch to his skin is blissfully pure and it engulfs me entirely. I take hold of the fine lines of his hands that are so warm and cup it to my cheek, snuggling right into it. He gladly takes the invitation, this magnetic pull closing him in to the point his breath reaches the tip of my nose. It makes me want to sneeze, to release the truth and be free. Unfortunately, I am yet only a dove with clipped wings.

My eyes meet his, whose irises dances along to the limelight. They shine like stars, much too bright to feel comfortable. They hurt to look into, and they hurt more to know they aren't overfilled with love for me by now. He thinks he can pretend he is in love. It is not working too well.

I cannot stand this pain, so I close my eyes instead. Greeted by the darkness, I lean in, lips burning alive when they press upon his. They are better than what I imagined-- so much better I find myself wanting more and more and more. His lips are soft and fiery, for he is kissing me like his life depends on it. Maybe it does. Maybe he doesn't see me as he's kissing me. He sees her. Because he always sees her, and not me.

I, on the other hand, am drowning in love. I lap this attention up like a damn dog, ever begging for crumbs. Loyal, quite am I? The one always by his side, offering support in his darkest moments. Like now. Like now when I am locking lips with him, with my tongue intertwined with his -- a battle for dominance if you will.

He tastes like him. Of course he does. Who else would he taste like? He tastes of mint chewing gum and sweat and agony. I breathe him in and know of the coconut shampoo and cologne he uses. Everything about him fits me perfectly, from the difference in our heights to the way our limbs tangle.

He pulls away first, because I never do. I want more than what I'm given, so I take what I can get and not any less. If he kisses me for an eternity, I will stay there, even if it means I suffocate and die. At least my last breath would be with him.

A forced smile tugs at the corner of his swollen lips. They do not look natural, not like the ones he wore as a child playing in the fields. No, now his smiles have aged and tired, been demanded to grow up. His smile is not the worst though. Regret lingers in the remnants of his gaze, like it was a mistake. Like it was a mistake to give me any ounce of affection, like it was a sin to lay his hands on me. I have to look away again; the disappointment is much too great. It makes me question whether this is worth it -- to suffer in silence knowing what he truly feels.

But this love of mine, it overpowers my sensibility. If it leads me to ruin, then so be it.

And like that, he is gone. He turns his back on me and leaves the room. I have been forgotten. He got what he came here for and can easily dispense me to the side. This is something I should be used to, but I can't. I can't get used to it. Instead, it shatters me apart like glass. Kayo, I want to call out, to beg him to return, to see if he will do it for me. Only me.