infatuation // m.h

//

"Please don't go."
"I'm sorry."
"I hate you."
"Can we go somewhere?"
"I forgive you."
"Do you actually love me?"
"I don't want to be here anymore."
"I fucking love you."
"I'm sorry."
"Please stay."

These were thing said often between the two.

They were so enthralled in each other. They couldn't get enough. Skin to skin wasn't close enough. Kissing constantly. Driving with hands gripping thighs. Hands tangled in hair. Nails clawing backs. Eyelashes brushing cheeks. Heads resting on chests. They wanted nothing more than to crawl into each other, and never come out. Say goodbye to the rest of the world and crawl away into their own. They loved each other so much that hand holding and neck kissing wasn't enough.
Sex wasn't nearly as close as they'd like to be. They wrapped limbs through limbs and never wanted to let go. They couldn't stop.
But minutes feel like hours spent apart. They spent hours in each other's arms. Listening to music, driving, singing, loving, living. They couldn't bare time apart. She was obsessed with him and he was in love with her.
They romanticized each other. They wrote poetry and songs and lyrics and melodies about each other. He was hers and she was his. They belonged to each other. They smoked together and drank together and they couldn't stop.

Maybe it was unhealthy. Maybe it was wrong. Maybe it was toxic, doomed to end badly. Maybe it'd kill them. (Maybe the drugs would.) Maybe they were being dangerous. Maybe this would be the death of them.
But they didn't care.