I felt your ribs under my fingertips, no pressure on your chest so you don’t wake. I felt the rising and falling of your rib cage with every breathe you took in, and I wanted to feel more. I moved my hand to the centre of your chest, where your heart resided just a little to the left. There wasn’t a very strong beat, but it was steady and constant like your long inhales and exhales. My fingertips ran along the ridges of your jaw and the rim of your lashes, but I didn’t want to wake you with my cold tips. I wondered if you felt it in your dreams, and I wondered if you imagined them touching you in your slept along your eyelids and among the stars in your vivid lids. 

I traced along your nose and protruding eye lids, knowing that you will never know about it. I was greedy about keeping this sensation to myself, and me alone. I want to be so sure that I can keep this touch upon my fingertips, the gliding of my skin against yours to myself. A selfish want that I can no longer keep within, and the deep seated insecurity that once you feel those tips across your lids, they will flutter to life and no longer be the same. 



I had too much chocolate in one go, I think. I use up all my quota on chocolate-induced-endorphins.

I haven’t had chocolate since high school. Those nights where I binge watched Downton Abbey while breaking pieces off that Strawberry-flavoured Rittersport on the glass table, leaving messy prints and bits of chocolate on the spotless surface.

They say when you eat chocolate, your brain produces endorphins that would make you feel happier. I haven’t had one in two years, and yet I used to like it. So much can change after years and days of being disappointed by these bars of chocolate.

“I don’t eat chocolate,” I lied to my boyfriend, because it made me sick to the core thinking that I wouldn’t feel that happiness it had promised to deliver. So despite all the cramps and menstruation mother nature gut-punching, I didn’t touch a piece of chocolate.

It does seems silly, to be mad at chocolate, to be mad for not being able to be as happy as I want to be despite knowing I should be. Is that difficult to fathom? The idea that you can’t be happy despite wanting to be?