*THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.

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there are many things she wants to do.

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she wants to pass her fingers through his chocolate hair, streaked with gold, watch the way it gently curls around her nails, feel the textured softness over her skin.

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she wants to enjoy her days alone, feeling whole on her own and without this burning desire for another. maybe dancing, drawing, writing, anything will help. she puts pencil to paper but pencil does not move, and the blank page seems oh so vast and empty.

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she wants to stare at him for indeterminate amounts of time, unabashedly and shamelessly, curiously and wondrously. she wants to care not that he does not stare back.

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she wants to chase her dreams with confidence and dare, throwing caution to the wind and baring her heart on her sleeve. let them know that they can say what they want, since nothing they say will sway what she knows and who she is.

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she wants to sit next to him and lean back, so that her back meets his shoulder, gently resting against him lightly, affectionately. then she'll close her eyes and borrow his warmth. she wants him to borrow hers back.

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she wants to call her friends with honesty, genuinely because she seeks their company and misses them, and not simply because she feels alone. she goes out to dinner, laughs, smiles, enjoys her food, but still cannot shake the ache in her heart. the guilt of using her friends chips away at her.

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she wants to text him about the little things throughout her day. a picture of the view beyond her windshield on her way to work, a screenshot of the tv show she's watching. she imagines he would say, "woah so gloomy," or "haha, that's funny."

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she wants to be ok again.

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she wants to love him.

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there are many things she wants to do, but she knows she is not ready, and neither is he.

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so she remains wanting all the things she wants, one day at a time, and prays that one day she might want them no more.