Hot and Cold

He was that hot and cold. The sensation he gave was like nothing else I’d felt. His eyes could look at me and have the answer without me speaking. I would sit on top of him and look down at him, his tattoos, his dark brown eyes. I could never answer the questions out loud. He knew he was good. He knew he was perfect. It’s a funny thing, failure but success. I’d grasp at those moments like I grasp to my dreams at night. Immerse myself in the soft touches. The finger kisses and the soft hand on my leg. For some reason the breathing was always easy but hard. His soft, but harsh words. Unsure if he even knew what he was speaking. What’s it like to feel without feeling. What’s it like to love without loving. To push away so hard anyone that could mean something. But to not understand. Why was I even important. The words.. “just because I can’t love you, doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.” It resonates. The look on his face as he says it. An ongoing sorrow that will never be fulfilled.