She tasted of hopelessness and romance. The kiss of death, I'd assume. Her eyes were dark, her heart holding the highest of thrones. Her hands held nothing but fear, dangling from the fingertip of her smallest finger. The sound of her breath fading in and out, the sharpness of her beating heart, the trembling of her shoulders; She was weak with sadness. I almost held her but I awaited her ill-timed approval. She kept inhaling deeply. "Shake it off, shake it off" I'd wanted to say.
I could almost touch her.
She could almost feel me.
So close, but she never opened her eyes. "Just look at me!" The words almost jumped from my tonsils.
I said nothing.
She just stood there.
I paced in circles around her, stopping in front of her with each time I'd pass.
She was still.
I was still.
She never moved. I was begging and pleading inside and it killed me not to take her hands; Her needy hands, lifelessly hanging by her hips.
She smelled of haste, her heart rendering pursuit. I kept wondering how someone so still could emanate such eagerness. I couldn't leave her alone. I had to go but I couldn't. I liked to think she wanted me to stay.
There was something about the way she'd breathe.
There was something about my ample adoration of her yearning no despair.
The sweetness of her cheeks as she barely held her hands to them as if quietly examining them with her fingers as she cried. The remorse on the backs of her eyelids as her eyes darted back and forth behind them. I just needed her to look at me. Everything would disappear if she could see me.
She needed me. My hesitation and delay caused her this.
She needed me.