Lies

It hurts you to think about it.

To think about how in a few hours, she will be in your brother's arms, then after that sleeping in his bed, curled up much like she is right now, but up against his side and without clothes. Those soft hands will play upon his body, and you will keep on dreaming and imagining it's your form that warms her in the dark hours of the night.

You've always thought her pretty. Brown hair, brown eyes, and a little dimple that forms when she's found some thing that interests her in one of those big tomes of lore she carries around. You tried to read some of them once, but the content of it made your eyes droop and a line or so from an Edgar Allen Poe poem pop into your head.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. . .

You sometimes get the same feeling- weak and weary- when you look at her. The way you handle yourself is admirable to those who have never done it, and is recognised as a fellow weakness by those who have. You stay there, you let her rest her back against your shoulder as she reads some dull text book or other, her form frightfully familiar but not at all familiar in the way that you wish it were. She's not there to keep in mind warm nights, she's there to keep in mind that the nights are cold for you, and that the days hold only friendships.

Her efforts to "fix you up" with what ever guy you've allowed your eyes to follow half please you, half disturb you. On some level, some place in your soul, you fear that it's because she knows that you lust after her, that she knows how your eyes follow her, and you fear that on some level, she is afraid of you. And perhaps this is the worst thing of all. The idea scares you when you let yourself think about it.

You sometimes ignore this thought. You like to, when you are all alone in your room at night, pretend that none of these things are real, that she doesn't care about what they think. You pretend that she loves you. Her fingers trail crossed your stomach, you capture her mouth in yours, and the world is at peace. But you will wake up all alone, worse for wear and lies. You will look dizzily up at the ceiling, counting silently in your head to one hundred before you let the tears slide down your face. You will hide yourself in darkness and make-believe situations, ignoring for a little while the pain that comes with truth. Because in the end, you are really the only one you are lying to.