Lemongrass and Sleep

I find myself lingering into her embrace a little while longer than I probably should. Melding into the crook of her neck, resting my arms upon the curvatures of her waist. I bask in her scent, a scent that I have blindly memorised, an aroma I pick up upon whenever she wonders my mind. The syrup of lemongrass and the solace of sleep.

And she pulls away. She reassures me that she would see me next on Saturday at Bowie's party, before waving a bittersweet goodbye.

I was there on the playground, as classmates spat words like 'faggot' as if venom, I listened to my mother throw insults at the TV as two boys were embraced, wrapped in rainbow fabric and I shook in fear as religions practising peace and love and compassion insisted that I didn't deserve these very aspects of human nature.

But I don't understand.

How could feelings so pure be so wrong?

And who could blame me? She's a girl with hair the colour of summertime sunshine, eyes as intricate as the changing autumn leaves, a mind as individual as a wintery snowflake and a smile as lovely as the flourishing meadows of spring. A girl like her belonged in the prettiest of sunflower fields, and her youth and scent and effortless beauty could be captured there on a polaroid picture where she would live on forever. How could it be so wrong to fall for somebody so humbling yet so overwhelming?

She follows me into my dreams wearing a flowy dress that floats around her knees, the light peach coloured material complementing both body and soul, her hair falls to her collar bone in light, beachy blonde waves and she carries a daisy behind her ear in the similar way she carries her paintbrushes. The aroma of Lemongrass and solace of sleep. She is a beautiful treachery. Then she turns to me, taking my hand with hers, and for once she seems to belong against my palm. But I am dressed in rags, my hair falls lifeless and dirty against my sickly pale face and my eyes are droopy with sleeplessness. And still, she has my hand.

We dance and dance and dance like madwomen, to imaginary love songs that play in both of our heads. We dance as if we will never stop, until we are moving within the shades of purples and pinks of a dusky sky and never rest until the moonlight became our spotlight. We travel with the galaxies and count the stars in our eyes, and that's when I touch her face, run my hand across her jaw and tilt my head to meet soft, soft lips. She doesn't hesitate. We lean into each other, move with each other, two bodies intertwined. My arms rested at the back of neck, her hands grasped tightly at the small of my back as the kisses become more urgent, more reckless and rushed with exhilaration. Her kiss tastes like apples, like youthful summer days and New Year's Eve. I feel her smile against my lips, and I laugh back.

And I wake up, a laugh still resonating in my ears.

Surrounded by unfamiliar faces and sounds and scents, I wait for her in Bowie's backyard, yearning to see her again. I make small talk and pretend that I can tolerate the music, until her familiar hands grab at my waist, her scent overpowering and lavish. I turn to face her, and there she is.

"How've you been?" she says.

I've missed you. I say.

I've needed you. I say.

I want you all to myself. I say.

You mean everything to me.

"Not too bad. Up for a dance?"

She grabs my hand and twirls me into her body her with a cheeky grin. "I'm always up for a dance bub."

So, we dance. But we don't dance. The music is too loud, too wrong, and my hand feels too big in hers, and I'm shivering in my tiny dress, and I don't know what to do with my arms, and I need to tell her, I'm desperate to tell her how much I care about her, I'm eager to let her know how much space she takes up in my tiny universe but I never, never will. The times we are together are the times I dread the most, because it is those times in which we feel so far apart.

She later drifts away from me and latches onto the hip of a boy I've never seen before. I watch in defeat, as she laughs and laughs at something he has said, and I leave them alone. I don't want to know. I'll hear all about it later anyway, and wont that be delightful?

There is a new fracture in my heart, but it was never as if I had expected anything different. I waste away my heart by watching her from afar, by savouring in her scent and dreaming of her lips. She is everything to me. She is birthday cake, and story time and cosy autumn days. Her smile is my oasis, her eyes are my oceans. Her scent takes me home. But to her, I am blank. I am nothing at all.