07041

I look up to see clouds of smoke blur the yellowed streetlight, exposing myself entirely to his unadulterated gaze. For a moment the silence lingers; I’ve never seen such pure vulnerability hidden beneath those hazel irises I’d grown to love. Nothing shields us from the rain: water drips down his hair and eyelashes, one might have even mistaken it for tears. The starry night sky illuminates what could not be articulated by either one of us: a barbaric thirst for passion so concrete that it could be tasted. He gently untangles his fingers from my wet hair and I find myself feeling the absence of his touch before the sensation even departs. We’ve only been standing beneath the aged streetlight for a few seconds, both too afraid to say anything because our voices would definitively conclude a moment of complete and utter perfection. Our lips crash against each other; we kiss passionately, both of us hungry for a hope more tangible than what we already have– something real.

My desperation to steal another glance into his big brown eyes obstructs this moment’s ability to live to its entirety. The warm Saturday night rain washes my hopes of redemption away as I rest my head on his chest, inhaling the scent of burnt menthol, a smell that I have grown to associate with security– protection from the biggest threat I have ever known, myself.

“Then leave her,” I murmur as I bury my head in the crook of his neck, instantaneously regretting the words as they left my mouth, the smell of menthol now more prominent than ever. His arms wrap even more tightly around my waist: right here, in the midst of what feels like an infinite darkness, I have never felt more at home.

The security is short lived.

He tells me to just enjoy the moment, pulling me away from summer fairytales and dropping me right back in the eye of the hurricane– reminding me that this was just a moment and that is all it will ever be.

That night still rattles my mind. Even months later, all legitimate explanations are lost within the relentless confusion clouding room for any rational train of thought. His hands tightly clenching my waist; pulling me closer and closer that Saturday still replay in my consciousness until my mind inevitably wanders to the unopened box of Buncha Crunch from our movie. It probably sat on his bedside table for weeks reminding him of that night and the love blinded moments we shared. Now it’s probably forgotten– hidden in that small box alongside everything that was and all that could’ve been.