I have tried to forget about you. About your long, lean fingers, and about how it would have felt to be intertwined with mine. I believe that musicians have the most beautiful hands. About the short moments our eyes find each other and linger before they have to turn away.
You were almost something. That night, my legs were trembling and the walls were spinning, but even after four cups of vodka I was still thinking about how your soft lips would feel against mine. You were just standing there, hands in pockets, quietly smoking a cigarette. You didn’t dance with any girl, not that it made me feel any better. But after drinking more, none of that mattered. The hours after midnight happened in a blur. I just wish I had some control on the walls around me.
Thing is, you drove me insane. I wanted to taste the smoke and laughter on your lips, to feel your heart pressed against my chest, helplessly beating. I wish you had touched me as tenderly as your guitar strings. That night, I could have turned you into poetry, shape you into words. But I didn’t. I have this tendency of writing about people I’ve already lost.
I felt less lonely when I didn’t know you. So take me. I’m yours, demons and all.