A random lovey-dovey journal snippet from 2015 that I am hate-posting

____ is so lovely. She's so bubbly, as she once described herself. She's so easy to get along with and pretty and funny and intelligent and she smells so good. She listens to really interesting music; she has spectacular taste. I love the way her voice sounds when she tells me stories from her past, but maybe I'd love any young female voice who gave me attention. She sounds so enthusiastic about life and music and school and her career.
I held her. The girl who was once just a beautiful stranger, suddenly in my arms with her nose poking my neck. The feeling. An out-of-body experience where my reader pretends they are now holding the one they adore close, in the dark, and under covers. The feeling of not being alone. The temporary moments in which two, uninterrupted souls share the experience of holding each other in pursuit of synchronizing breaths and heartbeats; she doesn't care. As if none of it had ever happened. Perhaps the notion of abandonment is the fault of my overthinking of things. Evidence exists of her being with another male, and I was completely certain that these feelings within me would arise. She, a social butterfly, and I, a social larvae, mucking away at the dirty floor, are polar opposites in the social spectrum, but alas, when have I, the author/writer, pursued otherwise?
One should become what they desire, and if that is someone who is not afraid to speak; one who is the center of attention; one who has goals and passion... why are you afraid? My bed reeks of her pheromones. This is truly torture. The slideshow of poorly lit images of her face in front of mine as we laid side by side on the bed ran through my head again and again and again. Her soft lips juxtaposed to the decision that would change this life for worse (?) because the incidents in which love benefits both parties in the long term are rare, and dispel any notion of intrinsic value of an action such as a kiss.