She says I’m a loner, that I’m not good for her. And I am, more or less, though it hurts to think it. I don’t like people, if I’m being honest. I drive them away. I’m too suspicious.
But not for her, never for her. Maybe it’s love, when I move in her and call her name and she calls mine. Maybe it’s obsession, when I can’t help thinking of her when she’s not around. I torture myself with visions of her with someone else. Then she smiles at me, and all I can see is the woman in front of me.
I’d kill for her and never regret it. I’d die for her and lie happy in my grave. And I’m not good for her, because I’d drive away everyone but her, and spend my whole life in nothing but adoration of her. And she’s not good for me, because she’d bring the world into my little bubble, and I’d start to lose myself in the background noise that comes with it.
But then she touches my hand, and I had to put the pen down for a minute to hold it and kiss her fingers and smile at her. We’re a catastrophe waiting to happen. We’re probably doomed. But when she smiles back at me, with the sweet, quirky upturn of her lips that says she knows it just as much as I do, I can’t bring myself to care.