Comfort

The pillowcase crinkles in retaliation as her head slowly falls upon it, the cotton fabric frozen, causing small goosebumps across her cheeks from the icy air that sneaks through the cracks of the window. Late, again, and her brain falls back into the same thoughts she's had all day.

It's not a state of loneliness, or at least she feels it isn't. Friends are there. Family is well and supportive. It's this physical ache for a void to be filled. Similar to the feeling of an empty stomach stating it's demand for some nourishment. A sickening emptiness that makes one curl over their knees in a tight space and cringe until the feeling passes.

Yes, it always falls back to the thoughts of him.

The way his eyes cant decide between green, blue, or grey; resembling some cool-colored precious stones. The way his hair falls into those dusky eyes when it's maintenance is left unattended. The way he stands; not completely confident, yet tall enough to fool those passing him in the streets.

Her thoughts are nothing but the addictive lust and math problems.

Counting; the minutes she lives without him, the moments she wished to share, the days until he wasn't merely a fantasy anymore.

Oh, but the lust was not far behind. The wait gets shorter as the memories become more vivid. Almost a foretelling of what she was granted to experience again.

Butterflies that dance about as if on ecstasy, woken from complete hibernation by the acids of her stomach.

It's his eyes that foretell more of what will soon become of the 'welcome home' feeling. As coolly colored as water ripples in the light of dusk, those eyes of his spark. A small glimmer of the fiery shade of lust would be easily lost if she could be bothered to break from their trance.

It always happens the same way; all the memories, wants, needs, flooding back into one solid montage:
His slender figure nestled atop her curves, the hot breaths traveling through their ears and fueling the steamy thoughts, noises, and actions that fill the first few hours of reunion.

It's always these moments that leave the most beautiful images: Her fingertips trailing tenderly across the contours of his body. Small beads of sweat catching the soft light, looking similar to that of a snowflake melting on the windshield of her car's fogged windows. The way his lips felt on her neck, as his last bit of consciousness is spent saying. "I love you, always."


Reality is always harshest when her reels of memories run out, and reality wakes her from those sweet, passionate seconds.
She sighs softly, as her own fingers are caught trailing the same curves and lines from the dreams. Tears snake their way sideways across  her face, dropping on the frozen pillowcase.

It's not a void of love, companionship, or conversation.

Touch, whether it's the comfort of wanting to hold her best friend's hand, curl up next to another and have her back stroked until sleep takes over, or being in his arms...

Those few, final heartbeats of another before those reels upon reels of memories begin to play again. The safety of enclosed arms.

To be comforted is all she is missing.