a little alone Maybe someday I will turn around and by some chance you will be there, smirking churlishly, sprinkling the surrounding area with a salt I like to taste. You left me years ago and that was it. We never talked again. Exaggeration? No, I think not. "Well, good-by then Potter, have a nice life, fuck you around soon," "Yes Malfoy, same to you too, stroke you again in a few years." Wrinkle my nose at the thought; it's sick really. Did we really love each other? The question comes up time and time again and in the middle of the worst moments. Shower: shampoo. Did we really love each other? I'll use too much conditioner, and it will be Hermione's, too. Or Ginny's. Then there's work: taking notes. Did we really love each other? I'll daze out and miss a week's worth of information. Love: in the making of. Did we really love each other? And if so why I am lying here with a girl? You make it all too confusing. Please come back. I would rather perform a number of killing curses on myself than get down on my knees and beg but my quill is breaking in half and I feel rather sick. Please, please, come back. I don't want to be like this anymore, with the whole maybe someday I will turn around and by some slim chance you will be there smirking like you used to and sprinkling new air with old salt that I still love to lick'. Everything is getting redundant, Malfoy. Life is getting old, Draco. And I want to see you again. Indent on the pillow beside me; smells like sandalwood, sweat, and that faint trace of vanilla. Cream colored skin that blends in with the bed sheets, wrist that I like to hold up to the moonlight and kiss. Lips I like to invade. Legs I like to tangle in. Moans I like to silence. Eyes I love to look in. Not there anymore. I feel a little alone. back