Light of my life, fire of my loins. If people were colors, he'd be pure gold. Little Lolita, all mine. We had the kind of love that burrowed deep into your bones, capturing and captivating ever living fiber of my body. He was in my veins. I was always the type to sympathize with other people's heartache. I didn't know it could happen to me.
He doesn't want me, he just wants my attention. Sometimes I wish my heart was enough. But he always wanted more. That's the thing about power: it leaves no room for intimacy. Every part of him was fierce and confident and strong. He'd never cave in. There were moments when I thought he was falling in love with me, but it wasn't enough to make him stay. Nothing would ever be enough.
I was in love with him, and he was in love with his dreams. It's the kind of goodbye that you never want to say, but it slips your lips nonetheless because it's the right thing to do. Maybe one day we'll go back to those days, when he'd read me books and I'd lay on his chest, marveling at how perfectly happy I was in that very moment.