Impracticality

I found myself in an impeccably exotic and utteredly romantic dispositions last weekend. Or rather, He found his ways with me. I couldn't tell.

We weren't trying to rekindle any old flames, there weren't any to begin with at the first place. We had a walk on our first chance together, which was surprisingly serene. Soft whispers in a dimly lit room on the next chance, nothing naughty there.

Soon after the last chance, he sat at the end of my bed blowing ribbons of smoke as I traced the gleaming black dragon at the base of his neck with my fingers. A formidable celtic dragon, second of the more to come. He knows I want to see my name. We both know I was joking. We were talking about nothing important or particular. Some were actually quite funny. We didn't share a cigarette like before.

I noticed something different but couldn't quite put my finger on it. I didn't even asked him like I normally would do. Perhaps it's because of his kisses, unusually deep. Maybe it's me, quite oddly detached; wary, observant.

Before we said goodbye I let him put his arms around my waist as he let me put my arms around his neck. I was looking into his eyes, wondering what he saw in mine. Perhaps he was wondering what I saw in his.

I told Sarah about it this morning. And of course,

"You are too romantic, I don't know how you maintained to stay alive for so long."

Is it so wrong, Sarah?

"No, it's not wrong. It's just so bloody impractical. I really can't figure out how you survived all these years and stayed alive."

I wonder too.