naked

I meet them under the arch as hastily planned minutes before. I can hear them on the phone behind his voice, those eyes conveying their intensity even when they're hidden. Since day one they've haunted me, they've paralyzed me, they've disarmed me. I'm a particularly difficult math problem they're trying to solve before a kiss, I'm the most fascinating human in the room during dinner, I'm a wretched odor after a dissenting opinion. Though the man behind them says little, the light green pair framed by impossibly long lashes has more power than any words I've ever heard.

It's been weeks since my last encounter with them, and though they've lingered every time I've closed my own, I'm eager to stand before them while they trace my soul. My carelessly chosen sundress and still wet hair falls away while I feel the exhilarating chill of being naked in the middle of the street. Maybe my decisions have wavered from my safe norm the past few weeks, but this exposure is the terrifying, adrenaline junky thrill I never knew I craved. Through having drinks they are kind and unfaltering. The mouth is talking now, and the sentence slips in without me even realizing. The message alone is heartbreaking, but the deceitful discrepancy between mouth and eyes is enough to make me vomit. While I was busy believing in the eyes' ability to read the life in me, I failed to recognize the death behind them. This addiction is like all others. The substance of choice is not of the living, and therefore can't need you the way you need it. Walking home I'm still naked, only this time I've been forcibly stripped of my defenses.