In this moment we were just two lonely people, desperate to be held. You didn’t ask about my past and I didn’t care for yours. You didn’t know I loved too-strong coffee and pancakes for breakfast, that the sound of sirens scared me and that I hadn’t spoken to my aunt for four years. I wondered where you’d got that scar at the back of your hand and why you winced when my lips brushed your neck, but I kept those questions to myself. I had no right to the answers and I knew learning these details about you wouldn’t do me any favours in the long run. It’d only make me fall down harder and deeper when it ended, and I knew it would. Later, when we lay next to each other, energy spent and breaths loud in the safe space that was your room, and there was nothing else to say, I wondered why people called me selfish in the worst way when you were just like me, maybe even worse. Was it still selfishness if it helped you? Because even when I never set out to fix you, I’d like to think I managed to fill some of the cracks in your skin back up with honey and wine. Does it hurt to know I’ll leave in the morning, pretending I haven’t made an impact on your life when both of us know that’s not possible? I don’t want to turn this into more than it is, but I can only hope I’m more to you than one of the fleeting faces you pass by in the streets, ordinary and meaningless. I can only hope that once all of this is over you’ll remember me as someone who brought you a bit of comfort during a time you did not quite know who you wanted to be.
selfish love / n.j. (via ninasdrafts)
