I look at her. Her hair; dyed purple and pulled back into a high bun. Her collarbone marred with bites I had just left, her lips curled tight around the cigarette she needed to smoke after sex. She is sprawled out on my bed, amidst the mess and the chaos, the blanket pulled up past her waist, smirking at me.
Me, laying there, destroyed after she has taken me apart and put me back together multiple times.
I met her a year ago, the girl, and I instantly wanted her. She was the sort of perfect you read about and the sort of pretty you only see on a screen. She was clever and loud and opinionated and an asshole. She was completely out of my league. I was only in the market for a one night stand and she was the kind of person you wanted in your life forever. So that's what I did; we became friends.
And soon, we spent all our free time together and we had inside jokes. I still wanted her but it wasn't going to happen and I was okay with that. It was amazing enough to have her in my life as a friend.
And then we got drunk. And somehow, our dancing got less PG-13 and more take me now. Our shared fags became longer and more about touching each other's hands and sharing the smoke. And when we walked back into my flat that night, she pinned me up against the wall and her hands were everywhere.
And when we woke up the next day, I panicked. Because I loved her but I wouldn't or couldn't commit. But she was on the same page and we somehow fell into the routine of ending up in each other's beds every time we got drunk. And it happened sober. And it happened high. And, more often than not, it was happening. And slowly, I fell from happy with single to lonely with her. I wanted more.
And here we are, my marks making her mine, but only until they fade.
I look up at her and ask, "What would you do if I fell in love with you?”
She took a drag on her cigarette, exhaled and smiled before saying, “I’d love you right back."