Jealousy

I saw her on front campus reading Hemingway and I immediately wanted to know her. My last girlfriend read Twilight, quoted Taylor Swift songs in her Facebook statuses and called it deep. I want to write her in some poem or story and make her eternal. I never want to forget that people like her exist. She’s different. A long, pink scar running down the side of her face. Just like mine. But she’s ashamed of hers. She looks down when she walks and tries to cover it up with make up. She shouldn't. If I had her I would wrap my arms around her waist and lift her chin gently with my fingers and trace the lightning shaped mark with my lips.
I want to skip all the formalities with her. I don’t want to date or get to know her because I already know every thing about her. I want to tell her I love her before I even know her name. I want to lay tangled up in her and finally rest. She has a star tattoo on the back of her neck. I have tattoos too. I hope I’m edgy enough. Please think I’m edgy enough. I swear I am. I don’t want to have to talk to her. I can write but I can’t talk. God gives tongues or pens. Almost never both. We met on the lawn that day. I managed to speak. She brought her issues. I brought mine. We bore each other’s crosses. That’s love.
She sleeps at my apartment most nights. She doesn’t like to stay at her parent’s house because she says she feels lonely there. My oversized Red Sox jersey drapes her body nightly. I bury my face in her shoulder nightly. I smell her moisturizer. Her perfume. I fell in love again last night. And tonight. And tomorrow night. Love without end. Her last boyfriend was better looking then me. He had more tattoos and a better body. He wrote her poetry and she slept at his apartment too. I hope I hold her tighter then him. I work out daily so I can feel bigger. Make her feel smaller in my arms. I try to force conversation just in case my holding her doesn’t say enough. I’m scared she’ll go back to him. She leaves every morning. The jersey clutches her scent and I clutch the jersey. Hold it in my arms and breath in. I want her smell to stay forever. I want her to stay forever. Nightmares of her going back to him. I work out more. Talk more. Get more tattoos. Hold her more tightly. Smell her more deeply. I don’t want to be left alone again.
I can feel her drifting. I hate her for it. Her eyes wander. She only sleeps at my apartment a couple nights a week. I feel inadequate. Confused. Scared. Losing her scent and losing her. I clutch more tightly. My arms wrap around her ankles. Begging like a dog. She’s my savior. Two hands groped in the dark and found each other. She’s my executioner. Gun in hand. She has the upper hand. I work out more and comb my hair. Buy new clothes and apply expensive moisturizer to my face. I need to feel like I’m better then her. That’s she’s beneath me.
She left today forever. The door slammed. She said I drove her away. I’m too insecure. Too needy. Not edgy enough. I wish I had better hair. Bigger biceps. More defined abs. I wish I was wordly. Or could cook. Or could speak. I’m too scared. The nightmares come back. I wake up in cold sweats. Reach my hand out for her. Hit air. Her smell lingers lazily on her side of the bed. I roll in it. Bury my face in it. Dilute it with tears. Every night it fades more and I think of her. The indian giver.