He Declared Himself King, and I Bowed

All I needed, truly needed in my life, not something superficial like breathtaking sights, satisfying meals, heavenly smells, and pleasing music but was actually necessary for me to continue living life, was his touch. The feel of his innocent fingers hovering slightly above the hairs on my belly, coaxing them to stand up; his rough, tasting probe pressing past my wet lips as they met his, and then dancing against my wanting tongue; the slight tangling of his hair as I lovingly rustled it, not as a father does a child but as one lover does to another when his cuteness overwhelms. With that, I could be complete.

For a long time, long enough that I could not even imagine what life without him had been like, I was complete. He decided to leave. I am positive I will never understand, no matter how many hours I sit silently thinking about it, eyes softly closed and mouth slightly open, why he decided to leave.

Do not think I was anything but disgustingly devoted to him; I was. Any moment I was without him, I ached with the pain of being without him. Every single moment I was with him, I ached with the pain of loving him; it hurt because I knew that this was the most I would ever get. It was near bliss, but my wild emotions toward him could not be satiated, and I felt as if I had to jump across the table and actually devour him to quench the extent of my love for him.

My need to be with him was so blatant and nauseating that he could not have left me because he was unsure of my love for him. I was not bad looking either. Unlike some lovers who stupidly allow themselves to slack in their image after they get involved in a relationship, I did not. In fact, I was the opposite. Knowing that I was so completely unworthy of him, I worked out more than I ever had. Meticulously, I would primp in front of the mirror with my array of beauty products, expensive, but nothing compared to losing him, to keep myself presentable enough to be seen with him, although I could never match his perfection. If I was God, sitting above all like he ruled over me, I would still not know why he left me, even though I would be all-knowing.

Although it is a total waste of time to contemplate what prompted him to...I wish I could say take my better half away, but, in actuality, I should say take all of me away, as embarrassing as it is, it is a way to remember his statuesque face without feeling overly guilty. Whatever his reasoning, I know, without any doubt, that I did something wrong if he decided that I was no longer worthy of being his subordinate, even though I was never worthy to begin with.

Whether he knew it or not, although I am sure he did, which made his leaving that more appealing to him, he was my light. Days without him were filled with depressing waves crashing down continuously on me, filled with salt that almost matched the taste of my tears, eating away at my purpled wounds. He was a lifeguard to me, saving me from drowning in my own self-hate. Now that he is gone, the waves are relentless, dragging me, willingly now that I am removed from his love, back down to the perilous depths of my pity. All I can see is darkness because the depression never lets up. The sun must still rise and set. Why? I can’t see it.

I would have blinded myself for him. Actually, I did, for I allowed myself to be blind to his utter lack of emotion toward me. There were a few times, when I had full sight momentarily, that I wanted to knock him down, smash my weak hands into his strong chest, and force him to breathe. All that was needed was any sign of humanity in this shell: a tear to fall from his hawk eyes, a breath to exit his two perfect lips, a drop of blood to exit his immaculate skin, a wince to ugly his exquisite face for a moment. Loving him became loving the air; I needed his love to live, but my sickening admiration to him was never reciprocated. He was a dumb thing that had no idea what he had; he did not understand his necessity in my existence.

The night he called me, did not even have the respect to tell me to my face, to announce his departure and my death made me question my own existence. Not something absurd like if I actually did exist because I obviously did, but if I wanted to exist anymore. It was cliché, I am aware, to want to kill myself after he left, but why not? Our entire relationship was about pain. Now that it had ended why should I not experience the most pain I still could from him? I did not, not because I got over him. Quite the contrary actually. I decided that living with my every memory of him, dwelling over them every passing minute, trying to figure out what I did wrong, if I had done anything because it was entirely possible that he just finally came to senses and realized how much better he was, would be vastly more torturous and pain evoking that simply ending my life.

I can’t fathom life without him much longer, but I will never have to live it. I will live in my memories until he returns. He will return, for I will meet him for the first time again and again; we will kiss for the first time again and again.

It’s very nice to meet you.