I'm bored. Not of watching Levi paint, no that's not it. It would never be that. I'm bored of watching that blonde neighbor of his influence his art. I know I can't be his muse, at least not yet. But I didn't think Carmen would be the reason behind every brush stroke. The worst part is that I don't even think he realizes he's doing it. Being influenced by her, I mean.

Two days and seven hours have passed since she grasped his attention out that window that morning. Two days and four hours went by since she became the source of his genius work. One day and fifteen hours passed since he tossed and turned between his sheets, no doubt having nightmares about Carmen devouring his soul from his body. Twenty-five hours went by and every time he sucks in that lip of his, the only thought behind those forest eyes is her. I can tell.

And now here we are, the second painting he's done in her honor, and yet he's so clueless as to why he can't finish it. He's scrapped the first one, thank God, but here he is trying again to make that pink and yellow work in front of him. News flash, my dear Mr. West, it won't work. Not like I can.

He stretches off the stool, standing for the first time since he's woken up this morning. Tapping his phone so the screen lights up, he checks the time. Ten after two. We're both aware it's time for him to get something to eat. Carmen won't stop you from nourishing yourself, will she?

I shake my head trying my hardest to rid myself from thinking about her. Just because he did doesn't mean I have to. Two days since she's been on his mind, which means she's been the object of my thoughts too. If only I had something else to distract myself with besides watching this beauty of a man in front of me.

His phone vibrates in his hand. Who could that be?

"Hey. I'm surprised you're up this early." he says.

My heart drums in my throat, or maybe it doesn't, as I make my way to where he is. He stretches his free arm, the bottom of his sweatshirt lifting to expose that delicious waist of his. If I wasn't so curious to find out who he's talking to on the other line, I'd stand here and ogle him some more. But I can't waste time.

I sidle up next to him, my shoulder leaning closely to his, my ear almost pressed against the phone. If I was solid I bet I would feel how warm he is against my skin. All I can settle for now is his scent mixed with the acrylic paint on his fingertips. That's enough to keep me content, I suppose.

The voice in his hand sounds robotic and I can't really make out what they're saying.

"I was just about to make something to eat." he pauses, listening to whoever it is respond. More robotic mumbles. "Yeah, man. Come over later. I'll be home all day working on some stuff."

Man? Another pause and then he laughs.

"Alright, but try not to get too drunk before you come over. I'm not going to take you home like last time. I'll see you tonight." he says. Last pause and then he hangs up.

And now every bad thought I had prior to this phone call, all the hours I stayed up watching his eyes flick behind those lids while he slept, pained with thoughts that he was dreaming about her, it all fades. A breeze rolls in through the open window and I can smell everything. The city, the grass from the park across the street, the glimmer of hope that was stained moments ago. Was it just me or was everything getting lighter?

Levi travels to the kitchen but I don't follow him this time. I don't need to. That phone call confirmed everything I knew was true. He's mine. Our relationship was moving forward, just like I always knew it would. I was going to meet one of his friends tonight. They would sit on this couch (our couch) and walk through the front door (our front door), and exist in his space (our space).

The previous thoughts of Carmen was like a fever dream that I finally was able to sweat out. I told you I had patience, and now it was all coming together.

I sit on the couch facing him, watching him move like a graceful angel that he is through the kitchen making himself something to eat. Propping my arm on the top of the cushions, I rest my chin on it. The art behind me doesn't even bother me. How ironic is it that I feel like it's a ghost? Like the spirit of worry trying to make it's presence known but only getting my back brings me back to life.

Those brush strokes of red mixed with white, yellow tint next to it, all of it means nothing again. She means nothing again. Now I just have to wait for him to take those two pieces and fling them out the window. Trash them like we're trashing her. Honestly, if I could I would've picked up those canvases and kicked a hole right in the middle. Something in me tells me Levi would like that. He'd appreciate the passion I have for him.

Closing the fridge, he turns back to the living room, striding to the space next to me on the couch. I peer down to the plate in his hand. A sandwich. When was the last time this man had a home cooked meal? I know he's busy with work and all, but Jesus (are you there too?) he needs some proper nutrition.

I watch him place his feet on the coffee table, his heels grazing the mail that blessed me with his last name. He picks up the remote and the tv springs to life. A news reporter is at the scene of a burning building, fire trucks parked casually behind him. Goodness, this city was dangerous.

Levi clicks through the channels so fast I don't even have a chance to take in what we're looking at. Finally, he settles on a murder mystery. I wonder if I've ever seen this show before. It feels familiar, especially watching the guy walk through the dark hallways, but I just can't place my finger on it. This memory loss thing was going to be the death of me, no pun intended.

He takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing slow while his eyes stare ahead, flicking across the screen. I don't even bother paying attention to it, knowing that watching Levi is much more interesting than any tv show could ever be. When he pops his thumb in his mouth, licking away the condiments that have spilled over, I praise myself for picking the right choice.

What I would give to be his thumb. To settle in his mouth as his tongue tastes me. I also wouldn't mind the opposite either. If I could wrap my tastebuds around any one of those fingers, I'd truly experience heaven. There would be no hesitation even with the splatters of paint that he forgot to wash off. It's like I'd be eating his mind, tasting his genius, savoring all the thoughts he's had to sort through to make his brush connect with the blank canvas.

He takes another bite, his chewing growing sloppier the more into the show he's becoming. I feel those crunches in the depth of my stomach. I'm jealous of that sandwich. I want him to devour me, put together by his hands just for his taste. Chewed and swallowed, turned into nourishment and strength for later. Flowing through his stomach and placed where I needed to be to sustain him. I'd fill him up and he'd thank me for satisfying that hunger.

Dark music roars from the speakers but my attention doesn't falter. How could it when he's lifting that sandwich to his starving mouth? Another bite and I think my eyes roll.

Maybe I'm insane. Crazy with an infatuation that has thrived because I have nothing better to do than study this man who paces around this apartment. Than again, maybe I've always been this way. It's not crazy when it's passion. People call it obsession because they can't fathom being around something this beautiful, this magical. They don't have the will, the determination, to adore a person this much. They get distracted by their jobs, or their friends, their lives.

That's why relationships fail. That's why spouses cheat. They let their minds roam to things that don't matter. They forget the reason they couldn't keep their eyes away from someone in the first place. They lose themselves in other things instead of losing themselves in one person. You can't call me crazy without knowing how insane people really are for letting someone they love lose their spark. I could never.

If you took all that away, the distractions and the rest of the world, and you focused on one thing, one person who shines like the sun itself, you'd become obsessed too. Maybe this isn't purgatory. Maybe this is heaven. I feel like my spirit is lucky, no blessed, to be able to do nothing more than watch Levi merely exist.

If I had something else to do, somewhere else to go, I'd fall into that pit of forgetting. Of not appreciating what's right in front of me. I wouldn't be able to give him my full attention at all times, even while he's sleeping. I wouldn't be able to religiously take note of every move, every thought, every small moment that he goes through.

To be adored is one thing. To be worshipped is a completely different ball game. And God, was I worshipping this man. Amen.

His jaw flexes as he chews and my mouth starts to water imagine running my tongue over his skin. I reach out gently, sadly aware that I won't be able to touch him but giving myself the hope anyway. His chewing slows, his eyes becoming more transfixed on the tv in front of him as the music intensifies. I reach even more. I'm so close to touching him.

My hand trembles with the anxiety that shouldn't be there. What could I possibly be anxious about? I know what will happen once my hand touches his jaw. I'll glide right through. I've done this many times before while he slept. The end result was always the same. All those stories of people getting a chill when a ghost walks through them is a lie. He doesn't so much as twitch when my hand comes into contact with him. Or shall I say doesn't come into contact.

But I can't help it. Every part of me screams when he's near. Smelling him only makes things worse. It's like I'm so close and yet a million miles away from it all. And still I give in every time. Just like now.

He stops chewing, his eyes widening at whatever is playing out on the screen. The cheek closest to me is still full and it makes me smile. He can't even focus enough on eating, his mind only able to work on one thing at a time. I love him for it. Just like me he gives things his full attention even if it means swapping one thing for the other.

With quivering fingertips, my pointer and middle finger outstretched, I touch the stubble of his jaw. The muscle stays flexed from his pause in eating. I trace my fingers from chin to ear, straining myself trying to focus all my energy in making him feel me. Nothing.

I try again, starting at the base of his chin and then trailing my hand up to the top of his jaw. Furrowing my brows I push and push, trying to make my touch solid. I grit my teeth and slow my movements. He has to feel me. He must. But again, nothing.

I let out a frustrated sigh and try one last time. If he didn't feel it this time I'd completely give up and sulk in the other room. Not for long though, just in case he missed me too much. I wouldn't be the type to storm off to another part of the apartment just because I was upset. I'd let him comfort me with his presence.

Settling on my knees to focus more, I tuck my feet under me and lean forward. I grit my teeth and imagine touching Levi. I think about feeling that stubble underneath my fingerprints. I imagine how rough and grainy it would feel on top of that silk like skin of his. I think of the warmth. The swell of his skin under mine.

I thrust the thoughts to the forefront of my mind, forcing myself to feel him. I have to. Touch him. Feel him. Make him feel you. Touch him. Touch him. Touch him. I trail those same fingers on his ear, running them from the top of his lobe and slowly trailing down. I beg my body to sense him and for him to sense me.

He jumps, the music from the tv blaring around us, and I flinch back falling to the floor.

"That scared me." he chuckles, popping the last bite of sandwich into his mouth. He dusts his hands off and gets up with the plate, most likely putting it in the sink. I throw my head back onto the floor, banging my fists against it as I lay solidly on my back. Of course. Another successfully failed attempt.

Rolling over to face the screen, I watch as the guy spits out blood, a tall hooded figure towering above him. I hated how much I related to him flailing on the floor begging for his life.

"Tell me about it." I say watching the victim's eyes roll back until he lays there just as lifeless as I felt.