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Lust

In Prose

By Jonny DawsonPublished 7 years ago 1 min read
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I look at her as she stares back at me. Staring deep, deep into the very depths of my soul; a feeling so clichéd it’s almost foolish, and yet there she is. Her portrait stares me down. I am wide-eyed in awe as butterflies flutter in my stomach, desperate not to drown in the pit of anxiety. She makes me feel so enamoured it physically hurts; weighing down my heart until I cannot breathe. And with every painful inhale, every sharp exhale, I know I must suffer if I am to continue to look at this vision of perfection set before me.

I wish she knew how much I wanted her. How much I needed her. I need her to be mine. In hushed tones, I tell those around me how much I want her, how much I need her.

Why her? I ask myself. Why her? I ask again. And again. And again. Because she’s perfect, that’s why. But do I love her, or is it just the thought of her? No. I do love her. I cannot bear to be without her. Please, I silently beg, please be with me. I need you.

I wish she were mine. But I cannot ask. I’ve not the courage to ask.

How long has it been now? A week? A month? It feels like a lifetime since she last confronted me with her flawless image. Oh, how she is flawless. Dare I? Dare I ask this time?

I will...

I’m going to do it...

I'm leaning forward...

I say all the words I’ve so desperately needed to say:

“I’ll have the bacon double cheese XL, and supersize that please.”

She’s mine now. She’s all mine.

love poems
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About the Creator

Jonny Dawson

I write things and occasionally people laugh at them... intentionally or not.

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