Between the Lines.

A photo by Kristopher Allison. unsplash.com/photos/6x90rJDo-WA


I can hear his breathing through the phone – a steady in, out, hesitate. 

“It’s late, I should go to bed. Is there anything else?”


I want to know why you keep running back to him.

To someone who looks at the time spent with you as a meaningless transaction with a clear-cut beginning middle and end

while I am here with my futile attempts to suspend the grains of the brief moments we share.


I want to tell you that you are so beautiful, but not in the way that he does.

I don’t want a JPEG of a strategically placed blanket hinting at a curve of a breast or the length of your legs.

I want to tell you that you are more than the sum of the waves of your body and that your collar bone makes me weak in the knees.


You make me wish that I could sing or paint or carve just to be disappointed that marble and canvas can never capture the curve of your smile

and no arrangement of notes will be able to replicate the rise and fall of your laughter.

There aren’t enough colours in this universe to paint the host of butterflies in my stomach when your hand brushes against mine.


When you talk about him, I don’t quite know how to feel.

That I go in between wanting to hate you and wanting to be your knight in shining armour.

But you can’t rescue a damsel who does not want to be saved.


“What is it?”

Nothing. It’s late and you should go to bed.


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