Sometimes, if I sit really still...

Sometimes, if I sit really still, I'll see him walk by, look at me, and wink before disappearing before my eyes- which is why I didn't sit still that often. I didn't want to remember him; the way his hair fell into his eyes after a long night of studying, the way he smiled when he pissed me off to no end, making me lose track of my thoughts before I could yell at him further. I didn't want to remember the way his clothes fit his muscular body, or how his clothes were so comfortable on my body I wouldn't give them back to him for days at a time. I hate to think about the way he smelled; musky and sexy, the way his clothes always smelled, which was the main reason I didn't give them back to him. After a few days his smell left the clothes, leaving the scent of cucumbers. My scent on the clothes made the illusion that he was there, wrapping his arms around me, stroking my hair affectionately, disappear into the night. 1

I hate to remember the way he would chuckle, voice low and husky, when I would give him back the clothing I would kidnap from him, which ranged from hoodies to jacket, t-shirts and button-down shirts he wore over muscle shirts. Or how he would always have something on him for me to borrow or wear around town, if I was cold. I hate to remember how we got into the routine of if I saw him during the day, he would slip off his hoodie, showing off a bit of boxer along with a sliver of skin, completely unaware of why I was blushing by the time he fixed his shirt and his shaggy, milk chocolate brown hair. He would always press his cool hand on my forehead, asking if I felt okay, while my friend would make cat calls at us, and he would look around, confusion evident in his eyes as my blush would deepen in embarrassment, shooting death glares over at my friends. 2

If I sit really still, I'll be taken back to my mental breakdowns, crying and screaming about how he didn't care, or how he never understood, and all he would do is stand there until I would collapse onto the floor, trying to catch me before I would make connection with the ground, pulling me close as I would cry out in frustration with my head buried in his chest, fingers gripping at the thick fabric of his hoodie and by the time he had to leave I would be feeling immensely better. Then maybe two hours later we acted like nothing had happened, and everything would be fine for a couple of months, before the stress of being alpha bitch in my group would become too much and I would take it out on him again.3

I didn't like reveling in the fact that everywhere I turned he seemed to be there, even if he wasn't, and how it would affect me to the point where even my friends didn't like to be around me. I was addicted to him, and they all tried to snap me out of it with girls’ nights out, but it never seemed to bring back my flirtatious side, so eventually they gave up. I was ridiculously faithful to him, and there was nothing I could, or wanted to do about it.4

I didn't like to sit still since it would remind me of him being there in the hospital, so many machines hooked up to him, just to keep to breathing, and how I was there when that steady beeping of his heart rapidly grew until it was one ominous, continuous beep from the machine, and the hospital staff swarming around him, trying to bring him back to life in front of my eyes, ultimately unsuccessful.5

When I sit really still and see him, all I want to do is slap that grin off of his face for leaving me, cold and alone, shove him away when he winks, then pull him back before he disappears, never wanting him to leave, ever again.6