She wondered if the love stories worth hearing only occurred in her daydreams and poetry. She wondered if mankind was too fickle to love her – quick to paint the universe on her cheeks, to map her freckles as if navigating a tempestuous ocean; only to stumble carelessly over the dirty laundry on the floor. Threadbare negligence and worn socks. He could leap, ballet-toed, from star to star, yet to curl inward and live fragile was too much to ask. She was his favourite when naked and vulnerable, unfolded like fabric. Tangled hair stopped upon his pillows; golden thread he twiddled between finger and thumb. To him, her eyes were galaxies – coconut swirls of starlight. Glimmering wet with frustration, searching for reflection in his. Black voids charged with lust and her unclasped bra.
She wondered if his palms would ever join with her own. A clammy meeting of worlds and futures. But his dreams were restless and in the cracks of his hands she saw only lust. The desire to consume her. The desire to gnaw on her bones and tear rabidly at pink flesh. At this time, the moths in her stomach would always come alive, chewing their way out as he took her hips. Short circuiting every synapse of strength. A pleasure she had found in weakness.
All this she wondered in a position of repose, blank eyes fixated on the ceiling. She wondered if the love stories worth hearing only occurred in her daydreams and poetry. She wondered if the love of mankind would devour her before her sharp intake of breath was expelled.