What Separates Me From You

She's pretty – her skin is that kind of coffee-colored ice cream that stays smooth when she's stressed and only crinkles slightly when she laughs, right on that bridge above her nose. I like the way her hair is untamed, falling in those short pretty ringlets down her thin face, sideswept bangs she blows constantly out of her eyes. Everyday, I think about brushing them out. I think about clipping them back so I can see the masterpiece of her as fully as I can, to frame her with my fingertips. But mostly I just stare as she smiles at Gerard, giggling at some witty joke my best friend makes.

There's a problem with these thoughts of mine, that keep me up at night and send me to distraction. That slender, curly-haired girl smiles at Gerard because they're in love – and I'm supposed to be telling those jokes to Anya, my sort-of, in-between girlfriend.

Don't get me wrong, I love Anya. She's captivating, in all honestly; her abilities to write and sing amaze me, her looks are positively striking. The world she lives in when she listens to music is one that I don't quite understand, and possibly never will. I like to watch her with those headphones blasting, her features softening and morphing with each song. But it was different, the way I watched her. I didn't covet her, she didn't haunt my dreams. Our fingers touching is just skin hitting skin, and with Emmalyne, its different.

I remember a month ago, we were waiting for Gerard to come pick us up and take us to the Black Flag concert. She was struggling with her bag, and I offered to carry it for her. It was a red bag with small Hello Kitty faces on it, one she often got made fun of for but never really minded. I liked it, personally. When she gave me the bag though, she made a quick 180 turn, bumping into me, us standing face-to-face. We were standing so close that I could feel the molecules surrounding us snapping with nervous energy, begging to collide. Call me crazy, call me cliché, but that's when I was positive. When our eyes finally broke contact, something broke and changed inside of me. Anya's hand just turned to skin instead of want, and all of her love I felt was only friendship.

As my hand rested on her knee, I pretended it was Emmalyne, guilt biting me in the conscience and heartache written on my back.