Limerence

Prologue:

Days afterwards, he was occupied by what he had interpreted and compiled within himself for the gallery viewing. It may have been just a painting, but there was a variety of media present in the many overlapping and intertwining themes. Three paintings did not seem to fit until, sometime later when their working, abstract and content began to sort of make sense. Meager interpretations secretively weave their way to intercede. Each's description scrawled onto the mephitic wall summoned him to an emotional space. Tearing from the beauty, not the toxins. These suggestions of color and negative space floated in his mind, tracing themselves like a finger in the sand. He came upon the Hiraeth, a very passionate longing for home and a physical sensation of Nostalgia. This exhibition was seemingly full of longing. Longing for something beyond this time and place. In the distance, just out of reach. And this place - a dull city with grey buildings and white picket fences - swelled with the overwhelming sensation of longing. He - Jonathan - knew all about longing for a place up until his unfortunate demise. And she did too. A longing for a home and more specifically someone to call home.

She was experiencing a longing born from a limerence. She craved an intensity of love from a young man, an intensity that orbited his very being. She follows him home after school, hoping to find a home. But he is just as lost.

He passes her. Slowly sauntering down the deserted sidewalk. she inhales a sweet breath of strawberry as his sleek, sappy hair kisses her face. He grabs her arm suddenly and twists it behind her back. "Stop following me," he hisses through clenched teeth. His breath tickles her neck as goosebumps run down her back. He twists her arm farther. She bites her lip and blood trickles down her chin and sizzles on the laces of her white sneakers. Releasing her arm, he stumbles down the rotting street, tripping over blazed cowboy boots, and collapsing beside a clump of dehydrated weeds. She rushed to his side but he pulls away. "Stay away from me!" he cries through heavy inhalations, jumping to his feet and rounding the corner.

Lyrica grinds her teeth as dainty cursive letters carve themselves onto her arm. Singed flesh floats to her feet, catching on her white washed jeans. Longing delicately displays itself in navy blue writing between the two wrinkles on the upper most part of her wrist, joining all the other emotions she has experienced through the years. Nostalgia burns itself onto the back of her left ear as she recollects each feeling she's had; most recently for him.

His hands, so smooth, silky soft, no blemishes, no writing. No writing. Everyone's skin is clear, but his is remarkably so. His skin is always so pure. Even under his leather aviator jacket, his skin is white as snow and his face is sun kissed with freckles. Through he certainly feels resentment towards Lyrica. Possibly animosity.

Tenaciously, she creeps forward. Waltzing down Oak Avenue after him. His pink hair paints a stark contrast against the dismal setting: grey buildings lined with white picket fences. A coquettish figure in a rather dull existence. Blue tassels hang from his back and frip off his shoulders and his pants show brighter than the Sun. They fit skin tight, except around the ankles, where they bag and seep into the broad opening of his red cowboy boots.

Lyrica becomes enveloped in her thoughts and loses his tail. "Shit," she spits as she gracelessly lopes down the street. A cold hand wraps itself around her bicep and pulls her into an abandoned alley. A cat screeches and cans clatter as she plummets into a pile of open trash bags. A figure appears above her, slowly rolling up, one vertebrae at a time. His feet are shoulder width apart, dominating his surroundings and he has short wisps of pink flames trailing off his head. They fall upward and blend into the sky.

"Who are you?"

"You don't know me," Lyrica smiles slyly, like a fox about to pounce on its prey. "But I know you." Although she is trembling inside, the words erupt triumphantly; she speaks them like a James Bond villain.