Cycle

06/24/05

"Malik?"

He wants to tell me it will be different this time. Again. Wants to say he won't treat me like shit, ignore me, or make me feel used again.

But I don't believe him.

But goddamn I want to.

And both of us know I will.

That I'll look at him and not really care what he's promising this time. We both know I'd come running back even if he cut off my damn legs and I slipped on the still warm blood bleeding trough my pants.

Because I still love him.

And when he's not around I wish he was and when he's here I wish I didn't love him so damn much and when he says he's sorry, he won't do it again I wish I didn't melt back into him like sugar melts to syrup, sticky and sickly sweet.

I wish he didn't smell so good.

I wish I could remember all the bad times with the good so I'd know to keep my damn distance. Just once. Just until some of the bruises fade.

"I didn't mean to."

I know, Bakura.

"I swear it, Malik. I didn't mean it!"

Of course, Bakura.

And glimpses of sun reflecting in his hair shine stars in my eyes and I remember-

--that one time he stole for me so I could get my bike re-detailed –he had rolled it the week before.

--the roughness of his palms and the brick on m back the first time he kissed me, shoved up against the wall behind the Cineplex

--the night he first told me loved me.

And his smell.

Masculine.

Standing five feet from him my body leans closer for more. When he walks by, the wind blows, the sheets rustle I'm suffocated by the scent of him and each time I could die happily, with a smile on my face.

The ambiance of it hazes my eyes and everything becomes quiet.

"Come back to me Malik."

And both of us know I will.