Disclaimer: Bleach belongs to Kubo Tite, while Unintended is an incredible song from Muse that you might one to listen to. It's the one that has inspired all of this.

My Unintended

Tell me that even for a second you wouldn't wish for the hand that caresses you to be mine. Tell me that you don't think of me every day when you wake up, when you brush your teeth, when you go to work. Tell me that thoughts of me don't drown you when you least expect it, because sometimes I become so unbearable and my presence is so engraved in you that you want to almost exorcise me. Tell me that every time you eat, you don't think of that little restaurant where we used to go in the mornings, where the small woman at the counter would give us free coffee and some small croissants. Tell me that you don't wish to go back there and let my hand caress your cheek, and make you blush, and make you want to scream your love for me. Tell me that you don't want to go back there and hold my hand under the table and let the old woman look at us with fondness and tell us to come back when we are finished.

Tell me you don't dream to have a walk in our favourite spot in the park where people could hardly see us, where we could be just the two of us, where I could hold your hand, where you would lean and kiss me and pretend that this is all normal, that we don't have to hide, that I am not your dirty little secret. Tell me you don't dream to go back to that sycamore tree and carve our names there all over again like in the sappy movies that you hate so much. Tell me that you don't want to go back there and let me caress your skin, your face, kiss your eyes and pretend for just one second we can be free. Tell me that you don't want to sleep in my lap anymore, that you don't want to feel my fingers through your soft hair, that you don't want me to kiss it.

Tell me that you don't want to go back to our small apartment where we could be just the two of us, where you could cook for us and pretend that I am not completely useless in the kitchen. Tell me that you don't wish to have me there again, kissing the top of your head, your elegant neck, and your hands. Tell me that you don't want to get annoyed with me, telling me that you want me out of the kitchen until you're through because I am too much of a distraction. Tell me that you don't want to confess again that my skin holds your favourite flavour and that my mouth holds the perfect spice, that my scent is better than anything and that my caress is sweeter than anything. Tell me that you don't want to drag me to the bedroom again and make love to me, forgetting completely about the food, too dizzy by each other to think of anything else.

Tell me that you don't think of the long summer afternoons when you would read in the late Sunday mornings, in our small living room cramped with books, sheets of paper, forgotten mugs and that old comfortable sofa with pillows and you on it. Tell me that you don't dream of the times that we spent there just reading or sleeping or pretending not to be absorbed by each other's presence. Tell me that you didn't like how the sun snuck in the room and reflected in my hair, how you would look at it for hours, how you would plead with me to let you caress it, kiss it, analyze it. Tell me that you don't still dream of it, you don't want to have me there, heavy in your lap, marking kisses in your skin, tasting your lips, define them, making them mine all over again.

Tell me that you don't want to go back to those nights when we would go to bed to cuddle together, too exhausted to pretend that we are anything else than lovers. Tell me that you don't wish for your hand to rest over my heart, while your other hand would possessively enwrap my waist, drawing me closer to your body, making me feel like you wanted me so much. That I was your half. Your better half. Tell me that you don't dream to wake up in the middle of the night to kisses and embraces and soft murmurs of love while making love, while our bodies would be reminded of each other again. Tell me that you don't feel that need to pull me under your body, to mark me again, to make me yours again as if you wanted to put a label with your name on my body and my soul. Tell me that you don't dream of the scorching warmth between our bodies, that you don't wake up in the middle of the night wishing for me to fill up the other half of the bed. Tell me that you don't want me there anymore.

Tell me that you don't want to go out with me and pretend that I am yours when you want. Tell me that you don't feel the need to show me around like I am your trophy, like they must know I am yours. Tell me that you don't want to kiss me breathless when you feel like some people have come too close to me, like maybe they should be around someone else. Tell me that you don't feel that jealous strike every time someone whispers something to me or when they pat my arm or my back. Tell me that you don't want to drag me anymore back to our place giving extra attention to the places where people have touched me.

Tell me that you don't want to wake up next to me anymore, that you don't want to let my hand caress yours while the morning sun sneaks around our room, making me feel blessed that you were there with me.

Tell me that you don't want to have angry conversations with me over the phone, telling me to stop being childish, that this isn't a game. Tell me that you don't want to yell anymore at me, that you don't want to tell me anymore how this is wrong, that our love shouldn't be so strong, that even if people accept us the way we are, we are still going to face big problems, that you wouldn't be able to protect me, that you would rather die than have something happening to me. Tell me that you don't want to hear me yelling back telling you that you are a coward, that you just want a way out, that this is no way of living our lives, that you should fucking man up and admit that you love me. Tell me that you don't want to be silent anymore, that you won't stop looking at me, trying to deny my accusations but knowing full well that I am right.

Tell me that you want to leave me, that you don't want me by your side forever, that in spite of the blown off argument and slammed doors, you don't know that I am still the one, that I am your other soul, that it's nobody out there who completes you better than me. Tell me that you don't want to see me anymore, that taking your things out of the apartment was the best decision you've ever made, tell me that you don't want me close to you anymore.

Tell me all fucking that and I will tell you are such a liar. But if you want to do this, if you want to tear us apart I will tell you this: I will never forgive the moment when you denied me, when you pretended that you don't know me, when I was just a dirty secret for you to hide away from your family, your friends, yourself. I will tell you that this is it. There won't be a second chance, there won't be apologies accepted, there won't be other moments. I will disappear from your life like I've never been in it before. So ask yourself this: is it better to live with or without me?