…is like that guy. All you do is spend you’re time waiting for him to come over and see you, maybe spend some time with you, take care of you. It’s like the guy that you know is wrong for you and every time he’s away you realise how much of a prick he is; all you think about is every time he’s ignored you, taken you for granted, wasted your time. But then he smiles and you melt. He comes over, gives you gifts, shower’s you with attention. Despite everything that you know, despite what your mates keep telling you, you give in to his charms and empty promises. Every thought you had of speaking your mind, telling him to change his ways or just ‘going-it-alone’ dissolve the moment he looks at you. No one can touch you quite like he can. His fingertips like feathers stroking, tickling, exciting. Slowly caressing every inch of you, every inch that you offer to him willingly. You know what the two of you can do, you move together, holding tight can’t let it go this time. Only his skin feels this good, no one else is like warm silk, closing around you, encasing you until you’re enthralled in a clouded stupor of creative pleasure. You feel him there, as if it’s where he’s meant to be; this, this is where you’re meant to be. He lifts you higher and higher and everything starts to come together. Then, right when you think it can’t get any better, you reach it and grab on with shaking limbs and sweaty palms. The idea you always knew was there has finally become a reality and you can lay back and relax in the knowledge that your creative drive is still there.
Until you wake up alone in the clear-cut light of the morning after, your pride and confidence still stinging from the blunt force trauma of the cold shoulder. Left lonesome until he wants to intervene again.
Inspiration, you’re a cunt.