Needing (spoken word potential)

“I love you” he says, no hesitation nor doubt in his mind- but regret in his heart. I smile, but my own heart cries as I reply honestly “I love you too”
 
My trembling hands reach for his strong ones, and latch on as though I need them to keep me afloat in the rapid and harsh tide that is my life. I watch his flesh turn deathly white under the bone breaking grip of my finger tips, but he does not flinch for he too fears he will drown in the waves of his own emotion if we do not try and help each other to the shore of sanity.
 
His rough lips press against mine, which are soft like rose petals. His kiss comes harsh and passionate, devouring every peck like it may be the last; mine comes tender and patient in the hopes of just one more.
 
My long hair tangles in the commotion, and I’m afraid he can feel the web of lies and deceit that other men have twisted in at the roots over the years; he panics that his, short and freshly clipped, will be unable to hide from me his destructive thoughts.
 
Touch. Kiss. Smile. Touch.
 
We can’t help but let our hands wander. Our nervous fingers trace each other’s bodies.
 
Moles and scars and birthmarks. The parts of us that the other will never truly know the story of.
 
He looks at me as though I had put all the stars in the sky… but can’t help but long for the wonderous being that placed up there the moon that he confides in every night.
 
I look at him and see the future… but I can’t help but wish to return to my past, to see and feel a couple of things again.
 
This is not loving.
 
We both know it is not so.
 
The saddest part is that we could be great together. We are well suited. We want the same things. We dream of church bells and doves, and the pitter patter of tiny feet echoing through the hallways. The smell of puppy breath and coffee in the mornings. The warmth of a body next to ours in the evenings.
 
But two sad people can’t make each other happy.
 
There is nothing poetic about two lost souls grasping each other deliriously out of fear of being alone.
 
There is nothing romantic about the crushed pieces of two damaged hearts becoming jumbled and lost within each other.
 
There is nothing hopeful about two minds so consumed with their own fearful thoughts that they cannot clear the other of despair.
 
This is not stability. This is not wanting. This is not home. This is not real.
 
This is reckless. This is distraction. This is prevention. This is pretending.
 
This is not loving.

This is needing.