torsdag 1. juni 2017

Moody or Runkle?

I usually start by thinking up this magic concoction of Moodyesque words to tell her. Charming ways to get under her skin. Hopefully something that can make her want to see me again. Which is all I'm hoping for these days.

I sit down to write this piece I've been thinking about for hours, these beautiful, flirty lines of love that oozes a subtle underlying sexuality and lust for a woman whom I think is the most beautiful I ever met.

Then it happens. I have to pardon my many Californication-references, but they are the best suited for her to understand my mind.

Anyways, then it happens. My hand tries to put to paper what my mind tells it, and it comes out differently. Every single sentence, every single word, it hits paper in a Runkleonian way, with an underlying desperation and want of something that can never be had. A hopelessness if you will.

So, what's the problem? Can't I just tell her I'll love her forever and ask her to marry me?

Well, it's not that simple. 

I'm too easy a prey. I don't give her resistance, I don't give her a fight. Bloody hell, I'll come running for nothing. I think that scares her a bit, and bores her a bit. Hell, it scares me too, 'cause I can't stop it. Even now, I try to restrain myself, but I just can't. I want to send her a message every five minutes.


Fuck. I'm Charlie Runkle.