I'm going to die alone.


1. Alone

I'm going to die alone.

I'm going to die all alone, in a dusty house, with just the memory of her, following me around these empty rooms, dogging my heels with every step I take away from her.

Of her smile, and the way it lights up a room brighter than any lamp could.

Of her laugh, which echoes through my memories like the chime of a bell.  

Of the way she always runs her hand through her soft hair, the colour of… no, not chocolate. Warm mud would sound like an insult to anyone else; but I have always had some fascination with mud. I have always liked the way it drips through the gaps in your fingers; the way it feels as it runs over the skin of your hands and arms; the way it isn't perfect, not even close, but the imperfections somehow make it even better.  

Of her eyes. Just the thought of her eyes makes me weak and strong all at once. The way they aren't quite brown, aren't quite hazel, aren't quite green. The way I almost feel they can look into my soul, see all my darkest secrets. See how I feel about her.   

Of her sense of humour. The way she makes me laugh like no one else, throwing my head back and letting rip and losing all self control and just letting go; the way her bad puns are the wittiest things I've ever heard; the way she can draw me into a conversation with a sarcastic comment, or a beautifully executed play on words.

Of her smell. The way she smells like no one else; the way I cling to that smell like a drowning man clings to a piece of flotsam, drifting on the sea; the way I can't stand it when that smell is away from me, as if it's a drug;  the way I just want to stand next to her and press my nose into her shoulder, her chest, anywhere, just to catch that scent.

Of the way she never cries in movies, not at all; except that once. The way I saw her let all her emotions play across her face, and I could for once read her like a book. For once I was the one seeing into her soul; for once she didn't have control of me, didn't have my heart in her grasp, didn't squeeze it and tear at it without realising, until, inevitably, there was nothing left to possess.  

Of the way she isn't afraid to be hated; isn't afraid to be different; isn't afraid to be herself.

Because that's why I love her.

But I can never have her.

She's somebody else's.

She's not mine to want.

She can't be mine to want.

I can't want her.

Because she will never be mine, and I will never love anyone else.

And I will die alone.

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