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Nov. 7th, 2006 01:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wellownedbkupFrom Nix.
He:
He was, at one point, mine.... But now he is not. He used to be, when we were foolish and young. He was when the sun was bright on the sand and his skin and mine. He was mine and I was his.
He was essentially everything that was bad for me. The rebel attitude he wore like a loved thing, like a second skin, would have made my family revolt. The piercings he told me he had, the piercings that I had access to whenever I desired it, made Ailis giggle in a completely debauched and naughty way when I told her about them, when I could not bottle up my excitement about him any longer. He was anything that could hurt me and make me despise him at any future moment.
He was my friend. He was my sometime lover. He is not any longer.
We started out as only friends. How can you really have a friend from high school that stays that? How can you stop yourself at the platonic, when every fiber screams for more?
He was a gentleman, at times. He respected my personal space, though he had the opportunity to invade it. He still asks permission, like I could ever tell him no.
He held me like I was something fragile and important and precious. He knows exactly when I feel horrible and, despite everything going on around him, he pulls me close and holds me, belying the “bad boy” exterior he has so well perfected.
He is the shoulder I can lean on now. He sees that I am tired and lets me rest my head. And I can breathe in that sweet, smoky scent of him—that cold illegal smoky scent—and I know I am home. That I have a home in him, if only for a moment.
I am safe.
He was my friend first of all. He is the jokester, the confider, the poet, the pervert, the actor. He tells me all his secrets and tells me things to make me laugh. He purposely finds ways to make me blush. And when I tell him that maybe I am in over my head, he finds a way to tell me that I have an escape. Or that I need to stand up for myself.
He is comfortable in who he is. He is not perfect and he knows it. He does not want to be perfect because it would require too much of him. Instead, he plays up his faults and imperfections, and makes you love them anyway. And when I was in his arms, he made sure that I did not forget that imperfections are what make us human and sane and beautiful.
He has a way of knowing my secrets without me knowing them. He is the perfect mix of dominant bad boy and understanding vulnerable and compassionate. He knew that I was a sucker for that, for the hurt he could give, and the love he could replace that hurt with. And I fell for him. Hard.
I fell for him several times, when we were both young enough to be carefree about love and sex and each other. And when we grew up, I still could not stop myself from loving him, just a little. I could not stop myself from giving him a kiss when I saw him, or calling him when I needed a friend.
He was my sometime lover. He is not anymore.
He:
He was, at one point, mine.... But now he is not. He used to be, when we were foolish and young. He was when the sun was bright on the sand and his skin and mine. He was mine and I was his.
He was essentially everything that was bad for me. The rebel attitude he wore like a loved thing, like a second skin, would have made my family revolt. The piercings he told me he had, the piercings that I had access to whenever I desired it, made Ailis giggle in a completely debauched and naughty way when I told her about them, when I could not bottle up my excitement about him any longer. He was anything that could hurt me and make me despise him at any future moment.
He was my friend. He was my sometime lover. He is not any longer.
We started out as only friends. How can you really have a friend from high school that stays that? How can you stop yourself at the platonic, when every fiber screams for more?
He was a gentleman, at times. He respected my personal space, though he had the opportunity to invade it. He still asks permission, like I could ever tell him no.
He held me like I was something fragile and important and precious. He knows exactly when I feel horrible and, despite everything going on around him, he pulls me close and holds me, belying the “bad boy” exterior he has so well perfected.
He is the shoulder I can lean on now. He sees that I am tired and lets me rest my head. And I can breathe in that sweet, smoky scent of him—that cold illegal smoky scent—and I know I am home. That I have a home in him, if only for a moment.
I am safe.
He was my friend first of all. He is the jokester, the confider, the poet, the pervert, the actor. He tells me all his secrets and tells me things to make me laugh. He purposely finds ways to make me blush. And when I tell him that maybe I am in over my head, he finds a way to tell me that I have an escape. Or that I need to stand up for myself.
He is comfortable in who he is. He is not perfect and he knows it. He does not want to be perfect because it would require too much of him. Instead, he plays up his faults and imperfections, and makes you love them anyway. And when I was in his arms, he made sure that I did not forget that imperfections are what make us human and sane and beautiful.
He has a way of knowing my secrets without me knowing them. He is the perfect mix of dominant bad boy and understanding vulnerable and compassionate. He knew that I was a sucker for that, for the hurt he could give, and the love he could replace that hurt with. And I fell for him. Hard.
I fell for him several times, when we were both young enough to be carefree about love and sex and each other. And when we grew up, I still could not stop myself from loving him, just a little. I could not stop myself from giving him a kiss when I saw him, or calling him when I needed a friend.
He was my sometime lover. He is not anymore.
