I looked at her and it seemed perfect. The sparkle of love on the verge of being discovered. The novelty of discovering each others' nuances, each queer and personal. Her face lit up now, the fight of yesterday forgotten for the adventure today promised. She smiled and forgave, friends were on their way to lovers. She blushed and shrugged, trying to mask her real intentions. Flowery doodles crowded the margins, threading yellow daydreams into her thoughts. I watched her, she resembled laughter these days, and I jealously hoped for a bit of her happiness to rub off on me. I heard her whistle her contentment to the walls, I pensively counted her mirth, cruelly hoping to steal back a secret, I once knew so well. She sighed in her sleep, quaint little sounds of contentment that only a heart at rest heaves. My envy grew within me, fetid, green and swollen.
She looked at me and whispered a silent prayer of longing. The glow of love realised and taken pride in. She quietly counted the ravages of love on my face, the beauty and the scars all moulded out of a story oft repeated. From her vantage point of illusionary proximity, she saw my heart. It was purple in its perverse purity. It was full. Of love well-earned, of promises well-kept, of hurt well-healed, of warmth held tight. She greedily read my eyes and longed to know why they smiled sometimes. What were the secrets they guarded so fiercely? Satiated, I seemed to purr pleasure. She counted the number of times I woke every night, fighting to fall into, and out of, turbulent slumber. She saw me writhe and longed for the pain. Wonderous, she sighed.