10. FUTILITY

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by gardeniaspara

by gardeniaspara

You don't have to say much for me to understand what you want: it's written in your eyes and body language.
How you often graze your fingers against my skin.
How you often tease with much vivaciousness as though some intrepid out on a mission—
We've spent almost every day together for nearly three weeks.
I ask:

"When will you get tired of me?"

"I like spending time with you," you said as you rested your head against the headrest.
We'd been at the same setting once again:
Outside your home, parked as we talked for some time—
hours to be exact.
"But everyday?" I asked as I turned to look at you with a smile.
You gleefully returned it with closed eyes. You were tired.
"It doesn't feel like it's everyday."

   And how I knew. How I felt the same.
You didn't want to leave the car.
We'd run out of things to talk about and there was a silence—
Like the still night; uncomfortable, not at all.
We searched above and beyond for things to say —
Anything that'd minimize the time it'd take to reach the next day.
"You don't want to leave," I teased as I turned to look at you and playfully rubbed your shoulder—
   To which your hand reached for mine.
   "No," you admitted with a laugh.
Not daring enough, you held my fingers rather than my hand.

   "One of the things people do is they brag about how good they are to the person they're interested in.
   It's a way of saying:
   'I'm worthy of you.
   Look at me—
   See how good I can be.
   I'm so great!'
It's almost primitive— these childish tendencies that people have whenever they're interested in someone. And you all laugh— but you'd do it too."

"I got her a care package," I stated as I took a sip from the water I had. "She was cheated on— can you believe that?"
I could never understand how such beauty can exist on a person—
beauty that transcends the superficial but definitely compliments it—
and still find men who treat them like they're any less.
The beauty queen that got cheated on:
The model that gave an insecure man a chance to prove to her that he was worthy—
only to prove that he wasn't.
How Aphrodite wept for him.
How I cried for her.
"That's so sweet of you—" you said with soft eyes.
"I'm telling you, I'd be a great boyfriend—"
"You would be. You're very sensitive."
I looked at you, smirking a bit.
You'd give me a chance? I thought to ask.

"You're obsessed with me," I teased as I rubbed your shoulder and felt how your fingers gently wrapped around mine.
   "I am," you whispered, laughing.
   If science is right about the way that we perceive things
   and what we interpret as seconds are only truly milliseconds or less,
then perhaps this could be a testament to that:
In this moment I saw every season of the year passing by
   I had to change the subject.
   If there were no rule nor law that could detain this feeling,
   I perhaps would've aimed my bow at you already.
   I would've kissed you.
   Would've cried "my love" and actually meant it.
   But we can't.
   I can't.
   And so I refrain.

"I wouldn't want my first relationship to be on a whim," you said as you looked out the window. "I'm not like that."
I can't offer you that.
"I'd like it to be meaningful,"
Of course, 'tis only the beginning of at that you deserve.
"I'd want it to be with someone special."
"I think I'm the opposite," I truthfully stated. "I wouldn't want to waste such important feelings in my youth. Leave it to marriage."

Of course I mean that—
But I only said it to you as a reflex.
As a warning:
I cannot love you.
Please do not love nor think that I can.
I want to—
But I mustn't.

"Jesus," Hebe raised her brows. "Just ask her out already. I can't with all the tension—"
My laughter ceased.
Have people started to notice?
They must have.
As I'm sure you have too.

All the space I've tried to built has only fortified the bridge between heaven and hell.
All the talking and sincerity has only made you more comfortable.
You've always been thoughtful and caring—
But it seems now you're more.
Your gentle fingers, how soft they feel.
"I definitely want it— I just don't know how to react."
Use me if you'd like,
As a method to get comfortable to touch.
Use me, if you'd like
To amuse yourself.

You're becoming bold with your flirtatious tactics.
The comfortability allowing you to spread your Icarus wings.
You try to win this game of flirting—
Do things to get closer.
Do things you never did before.
Go out more unlike before—
You tease me, make my cheeks turn red:
"Sweetheart," you said as you laughed and leaned closer:

"I know I can get away with it."