Stop. Stop making me think about you. You sat here staring into my eyes. Deeply you stared--looking, searching into my brain with those penetrating blue eyes that made me blush and look away. Did you implant something while you were there staring into my brain? Yes, I think you did. I didn’t look away quickly enough. You held me captive at times with those eyes of yours…icy blue that lingered and locked on mine in a soft but intense way that never quite undressed me yet penetrated me. Lost in your eyes, I couldn’t hear a word you said. My body betrayed me with gut wrenching butterflies and wobbly knees as I tried to stand. I nearly forgot how to speak or form a sentence. Nodding was handy. Damn those eyes.
You are here, and I want to kiss you. I want to kiss you so badly that I hurt, and the yearning is so deep that I feel tears welling up in my eyes, yet when you move to kiss me, I hug you instead. I’m scared. I’m terrified. I’m afraid that the passion will drive me insane or kill me or make me love you. We hug forever, and when you release me, I want more, and I get more. As you kiss my face and run your fingers through my hair, a moan moves through my throat and I want my body to melt into yours, yet I stop. I have to stop, because I don’t want to go insane or die or to love you. It hurts. I know your eyes are going to hurt me.
You called and told me everything wanted to hear. Did your eyes see those things in my brain? We drank coffee and laughed for hours like teenagers. Now it’s over--I have that same butterfly sick feeling in my stomach, because your eyes are still in my mind, and I think about how I almost went insane, almost died, almost fell in love. Take out what you put in my brain. Stop making me think about you.
I hate you. I think about you now and all I can see is how you licked the coffee spoon. You know you did it. I was standing right there. I might be a hillbilly, but even I know you don’t lick a gosh darned coffee spoon. Other people might want to stir their coffee with it! Do you realize from that point on I always gave you your own personal spoon? Let me also tell you that I was two seconds away from pulling a Joan Crawford on your buttocks, but I wasn’t going to beat you half to death with wire hangers, I was going to beat you with every gah dang spoon I had in the kitchen while screaming, “Don’t EVER lick the coffee spoon!” Oh, and I hate the fact that you play the organ. I’ve stopped thinking about you.