Ice Cream.

I suppose she might have wanted a bit more. But my fingers are clumsy, you see, and truthfully my mind had set itself on the timer of my melting ice cream. I merely kissed her on that couch, and her arms kept pulling me under. She took my hands places, she wanted them to wander. I pulled them back, and closed my mouth around her earlobe. By moving just so, I made her squirm in delight, her overflow of passion tainting any residue of mine. Framed by the arching lengths of her hair, the TV housed its muted inhabitants. Fighting, the black and white boys digging their fists into each others jaws and stomachs. A momentary urge to push her away surfaced in me as she moved, delicately eliminating my view of the movie like an usurping flower. I grimaced as she kissed me again. She kissed me harder and my heart bled for the ice cream turning into soup beside the heater.

But you misunderstand me. I wanted to love her, at the beginning. We were young and messy and poetic.

I loved her then.

But then she wiped her face into makeup and tore her soul like paper to fit into a dress. She is no longer the girl who danced like a pear-shaped ballerina in her trainers. She's painfully broken now, and every time she touches me I can feel the shards dragging my skin. Every time she kisses me I can taste how she wishes I was someone else too.