The rain. Whenever it rains and I’m caught in the downpour so much that my hair is drenched and my clothes are soaked through. And when I finally reach cover and pant from sprinting I can feel the drops of rain run along my forearm, the way your fingers used to before you clasped them in mine and then kissed me.
The night. It swallowed us like the whale and we sat inside it’s belly on our raft. Your limbs dangled over toying with the water. I sat and stared at you as you stared back at me. The emptiness, when it was only us that were alive and our words were the only ones that were spoken.
Books. To associate a girl with a book is high praise. To associate her with all of them is worship. I can feel you when I’m holding one in my hand. The way your finger ran down it’s crease made me wish I had pages. I wanted you to hold me as tightly as you gripped your books.
A mirror. Your bathroom mirror and your reflection. Steam splattered across it, covering the parts I desperately wanted and leaving a hazed view of the rest. Your eyes looking at me through the mirror as I replied with mine. Your hips pressed into the vanity. Mine into you. Our reflection of anticipation.
A desk. The shape of the L and how we would bend the wrong way along it. Off of it. On it. Across it. Against it. Under it. It knew more about us than any other piece of furniture we owned. It knew our secrets and only told them when shifting awkwardly towards the wall.
Writing words. They were all for you. Every word I wrote was because of the look on your face when you read them. The tears in your eyes. The lust on your lips. The weight of your kiss. The smile that was spread. I would write for an eternity if it meant I could keep your eyes on me for every moment. To be able to look up and see you would keep me focused for all lifetimes.
You are everywhere, and you always will be.