“I’m still in love with Emily.”
My hands are shaking and the rest of the text message is lost on me because, really, weren’t those the only words that mattered?
My mind flashes back just a few days ago: I am straddling you in the backseat of your car, your hands on my hips, your lips curved. I am marveling at the way we fit together, your warm skin against mine, the panting, the pulsing, the pressure, the… I’m losing my ability to think clearly.
I was wishing it was more than just a fuck and you were wishing I was someone else. But I suppose that’s the way of things, isn’t it? I know how this story goes. We won’t talk anymore. I’ll abuse alcohol and the willing ears of my friends for a week or two. I’ll convince myself that I’m better off and eventually I will be better off.
I know how this story goes. One day someone else will be wishing they were more than just a fuck, and I’ll be wishing they were you.Thanks, likealineofpoetry.
(via fitzgeraldwashere)
