I met my husband in the afternoon of my father's funeral. Well, technically, I've met him long before that, but I never really gave him much thought. He was just some guy from work that insisted on calling me missus even though I wasn't married, and smiled as if it were going out of fashion. I guess he was one of those people that just flew under the radar, invisible to the naked eye.
It was a heart attack that got my father, during one of his many daily naps. No one even noticed until it was dinner time and my mother went to wake him up. I wasn't quite sure how I was supposed to feel about it all. I was in a haze of sorts, switching back and forth between dull melancholy and stark indifference. I felt a weightless anticipation, like a gust of wind would soon blow me away. Meanwhile a flurry of people would pass before me; kissing me, shaking my hand, and rushing towards the dessert spread. He came and went with the rest, and I absentmindedly nodded to his condolences, just as I had been doing all day.
Then, at around 3 p.m, just as my patience was about to reach its threshold, I felt a hand on my shoulder, "Would you like to take a walk?" he asked, and immediately lead me towards the door; tall and slender and bright as the afternoon sun.
We walked in silence. The pitter-patter of my shoes nervous against his long, calm strides. He would walk slightly behind me, purposely falling back whenever I slowed my pace. And throughout it all, the only thing I could think of was how strange it felt to have the warmth of the sun against my back; as if I've been living in perpetual nights all this time. For a moment I wondered if it was meant to be symbolic, but then I decided I'd better not attach too much meaning to the summer sun. Winter will always follow, after all.
"You didn't have to come, you know."
His pace slowly quickened, and soon I found him right at my heels, "I didn't?"
"No. I mean, thank you and all, but we're just colleagues... you didn't have to go through all the trouble."
"Oh, I'm so relieved you know who I am," he laughed, now comfortably walking shoulder-to-shoulder, "All this time I was thinking: oh god, what if she doesn't even recognize me? And I came all the way here like an idiot."
I fell silent for a few seconds, smiling a bit too widely and staring a bit too intently at him, but I just couldn't help it; there was something incredibly remarkable about his openness, his sincerity; like a child unspoiled by the ways of the world. I found myself so inexplicably drawn to him, like he was the sun and I was some planet; mercury or venus, for they were the closest, the most affected by the sun's gravity.
"I just made a complete idiot out of myself, didn't I?"
"Not at all. If anything, you've made quite the impression. Up until now you were the guy that called me missus." I turned, carefully skimming over him. He had a black mop of hair that would shiver and tremble against the mildest of winds. And a smile that was stuck to his lips; more out of force, it seemed, than choice, as if his entire face would burst into flames if he were to ever stop smiling. His eyes were so incredibly vibrant, like the green of emerald stone, and they would radiate in fluid motion; as if he had wild rivers running through them. For a minute I had to wonder if he was actually this beautiful, or whether my eyes were tipping in favor of my biases.
"Why do you do that, by the way?"
"The truth?" he asked and when I nodded, he eagerly continued, "I didn't know whether you were married or not. So I came up with this ingenious plan: I'll call her missus and see if she corrects me."
"But I never corrected you and you continued to call me missus instead of just using my name?"
He shrugged, "Well, I don't know. I guess I was hoping that you'd correct me, someday."
"Are you saying you were hoping I'd get a divorce?"
"No!" he stepped closer, moving his hands towards me, before changing his mind mid-way and dropping them stiffly to his sides, "No, no, not hoping. I was just... waiting."
"Waiting for me to get a divorce? That isn't all that better, you know."
"I wasn't waiting! Oh, god." he sighed, smiling like a child who'd just been caught with his hand up the cookie jar, "There's no way I'm turning this round, am I? I should just shut up."
I found him so incredibly endearing, then; mainly because he seemed so pleased with himself, beaming in silent mirth, and coyly leaning in so that our arms would touch, "I'm not married, by the way."
He instantly stopped, forcing me into a halt myself, "What? How come you never corrected me, then?"
"I don't know. I guess I forgot to at first, and then it was too late so I just went along with it."
He loomed over me; frowning as if I somehow did him a great unkindness. It took him a few moments of absolute silence; one that brewed over his head like grey clouds, and after a long, frustrated sigh, he smiled, "Thank you for finally correcting me, then."
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
A Certain Man, V
I haven't seen him since that day at the grocery store. Well, 'haven't seen' is a bit misleading, isn't it? It makes it sound like it was because of some outward force beyond my control. In reality it was simply my conscious decision to stop seeing him. I guess it just lost its purpose. I once left the world at his doorstep, shed every layer of skin and gave myself entirely, unreservedly to him. With him I was self-centered, insecure, obnoxious, unappealing; I was myself without restraints. I was not what my parents wanted of me, what society said I should be. I was simply myself and the sum of my terrible qualities.
It lost its purpose because after seeing him there; pushing his trolley and checking items off his grocery list, the lights suddenly switched on, and I could so plainly see what I was once completely oblivious of. This man; this beautiful, kind, creature that took me in and let me explore the whole of him, venturing so deep that I somehow found myself along the way. And with all of that, I couldn't possibly just drop in, have him, and leave.
I've said that I stopped visiting him, but I can't say it was easy. It came and went in waves; the desire to see him. Once I even got to his building, before turning away. I don't think of him often, but there are times when my desire—my need—to see him manifested itself so strongly within me that I began to wonder if I'll ever manage to get over it. I say get over it, and you immediately assume that it was love. But it wasn't love, not even in the slightest, and if you thought it was, then you should go back and read every sentence, every word I've written. What I felt for him was not simply—not only—love. It was an intense appreciation of the very air that he breathed, and conversely, the clear understanding of how little he truly meant to me.
And there are times when I couldn't even remember his face. I do remember his eyes being big and protruding and the colour of murky river water. I remember his smile; kind and unassuming, and secretly mocking me (or so it seemed to be). I remember the hair on his arms, and how it grew more sparse as you traveled up his limbs. I remembered all of his parts with all its little details, but never him as a whole. I guess that's just how it is with memories; they slowly slip away until the only thing remaining is the rabble.
He never came to see me, just in case you were wondering. Though I've spent countless days waiting for him. He had to, right? I imagined, I dreamed, of the day he came knocking on my door. It'd be late at night, sometime during the winter. My address would be written down on a paper, sitting right at the centre of his desk. He never did muster the courage to do it before, but tonight was unlike any other night. Tonight, he decided to just sod it all and come see me.
So he found himself at my apartment building. Studying it, skimming over the windows; wondering which one belonged to me. Wondering if I'm awake; with my terrible sleeping pattern, I should be. Wondering if I ever got over my troubles with sleep. I probably did, by now. It's been years, after all.
And years, and years, and years.
Even in my own dillusions, he turns away. It always ends this way, no matter how hard I tried to change it. The furthest it got was with him knocking on my door and disappearing down the corridor. I didn't even get to see the back of his head. Fucking pathetic, isn't it? Dreams are meant to be our escape from reality, where we seek out our wildest and most far-fetched of desires.
But I guess some things are just not meant to happen, huh?
It lost its purpose because after seeing him there; pushing his trolley and checking items off his grocery list, the lights suddenly switched on, and I could so plainly see what I was once completely oblivious of. This man; this beautiful, kind, creature that took me in and let me explore the whole of him, venturing so deep that I somehow found myself along the way. And with all of that, I couldn't possibly just drop in, have him, and leave.
I've said that I stopped visiting him, but I can't say it was easy. It came and went in waves; the desire to see him. Once I even got to his building, before turning away. I don't think of him often, but there are times when my desire—my need—to see him manifested itself so strongly within me that I began to wonder if I'll ever manage to get over it. I say get over it, and you immediately assume that it was love. But it wasn't love, not even in the slightest, and if you thought it was, then you should go back and read every sentence, every word I've written. What I felt for him was not simply—not only—love. It was an intense appreciation of the very air that he breathed, and conversely, the clear understanding of how little he truly meant to me.
And there are times when I couldn't even remember his face. I do remember his eyes being big and protruding and the colour of murky river water. I remember his smile; kind and unassuming, and secretly mocking me (or so it seemed to be). I remember the hair on his arms, and how it grew more sparse as you traveled up his limbs. I remembered all of his parts with all its little details, but never him as a whole. I guess that's just how it is with memories; they slowly slip away until the only thing remaining is the rabble.
He never came to see me, just in case you were wondering. Though I've spent countless days waiting for him. He had to, right? I imagined, I dreamed, of the day he came knocking on my door. It'd be late at night, sometime during the winter. My address would be written down on a paper, sitting right at the centre of his desk. He never did muster the courage to do it before, but tonight was unlike any other night. Tonight, he decided to just sod it all and come see me.
So he found himself at my apartment building. Studying it, skimming over the windows; wondering which one belonged to me. Wondering if I'm awake; with my terrible sleeping pattern, I should be. Wondering if I ever got over my troubles with sleep. I probably did, by now. It's been years, after all.
And years, and years, and years.
Even in my own dillusions, he turns away. It always ends this way, no matter how hard I tried to change it. The furthest it got was with him knocking on my door and disappearing down the corridor. I didn't even get to see the back of his head. Fucking pathetic, isn't it? Dreams are meant to be our escape from reality, where we seek out our wildest and most far-fetched of desires.
But I guess some things are just not meant to happen, huh?
Friday, December 13, 2013
A Certain Man, IV
We had set the rules very early on; made it perfectly clear to the both of us that we only existed within his walls. We held no obligations, extended no courtesies. We were simply two strangers that enjoyed each other's company, sporadically, or; whenever I felt the need to.
So when I saw him at the grocery store, trolley in hand, staring right at me; I wasn't really sure what I was supposed to do. I was so completely taken back by it, more so than I thought I would. It was as if it suddenly occurred to me that he actually existed. That he wasn't just some enigmatic man that fed me and listened to my problems (among other things). He was an actual living, breathing human being; with a job and friends and a fucking grocery list.
I was walking when I saw him, and while my pace slowed down, I didn't stop. I kept going until the only thing between us was his trolley. And right when I was about to speak, a man popped out of the cereal aisle and stood next to him, "This supermarket is shit. I swear It's arranged all wrong!"
Then, noticing me, he turned and smiled. He was much younger, around my age, maybe a bit younger; he looked a lot like him, but taller, slimmer, and a lot more handsome. His brother?
"I'm sorry, do you... do you two know each other?" he frowned, looking back and forth between us.
I waited for him to answer, but he never did; and it wasn't that he was too shocked or nervous to do so, he just simply ignored the question and kept looking at me, all smiles and intrigue. If he was feeling any sort discomfort, he certainly didn't let it show.
"Yes, erm, we're friends."
"Friends!" the younger man echoed, eyes wide in surprise. He kept staring at me with a bewildered expression to his face; skimming over me, again and again, like I was that last puzzle piece that doesn't fit; like I simply didn't make any sense.
"Yes, an acquaintances of mine. And this," he smirked, as if he was about to reveal some terrible secret of his, "Is my son."
It felt as if I crashed against a brick wall, face-first, and it must've shown because the younger man suddenly broke out in laughter. He, on the other hand, stepped back and crossed his arms.
"I'm his nephew," he smiled, "Do excuse my uncle's sense of humor. It's always been... peculiar."
"Well, it's already been established that I'm peculiar, myself." he chimed in, cocking his head.
"Well, erm, I should really get go—"
"No! No, wait!" the nephew interrupted, stepping closer and taking my hand, "See, uncle? You're scaring the pretty bird away."
"I've done no such thing. It was you that scared her off."
"Me? But I've been nothing but friendly," he protested, with a slight squeeze to my hand, "It was him, wasn't it, pretty bird? He always scares people off."
"No, he doesn't scare me at all." I mumbled, trying to subtly break free of his grip, but he only held on tighter, "I'm used to him."
"Oho!" he cooed, turning to his uncle, "Pretty bird's used to you, huh, uncle?"
"Settle down," he sighed, taking my hand away from his nephew, "And what have we said about unwanted bodily contact?"
"What? You're allowed to hold her hand and I'm not?"
"Well, it isn't unwanted," he smiled, looking down at me in that menacing way he does, "Is it?"
"No."
"Oho!" the nephew exclaimed once again, almost jumping in excitement, "Pretty bird doesn't mind your touch, huh, uncle?"
I had never been easily offended. In fact, it was nearly impossible to offend me at all. But being there, trapped between those two while they did their... comedy routine. I felt like my head was going to burst. Having a litter of siblings of my own, I knew exactly how it felt to be the butt of the joke. To be teased and pulled in every direction for the sole purpose of entertainment.
"Please let go of my hand," I snapped, turning towards the nephew, "And you, don't call me pretty bird ever again, yeah? Now, I really have to go. It was lovely meeting you. Have a good day."
So when I saw him at the grocery store, trolley in hand, staring right at me; I wasn't really sure what I was supposed to do. I was so completely taken back by it, more so than I thought I would. It was as if it suddenly occurred to me that he actually existed. That he wasn't just some enigmatic man that fed me and listened to my problems (among other things). He was an actual living, breathing human being; with a job and friends and a fucking grocery list.
I was walking when I saw him, and while my pace slowed down, I didn't stop. I kept going until the only thing between us was his trolley. And right when I was about to speak, a man popped out of the cereal aisle and stood next to him, "This supermarket is shit. I swear It's arranged all wrong!"
Then, noticing me, he turned and smiled. He was much younger, around my age, maybe a bit younger; he looked a lot like him, but taller, slimmer, and a lot more handsome. His brother?
"I'm sorry, do you... do you two know each other?" he frowned, looking back and forth between us.
I waited for him to answer, but he never did; and it wasn't that he was too shocked or nervous to do so, he just simply ignored the question and kept looking at me, all smiles and intrigue. If he was feeling any sort discomfort, he certainly didn't let it show.
"Yes, erm, we're friends."
"Friends!" the younger man echoed, eyes wide in surprise. He kept staring at me with a bewildered expression to his face; skimming over me, again and again, like I was that last puzzle piece that doesn't fit; like I simply didn't make any sense.
"Yes, an acquaintances of mine. And this," he smirked, as if he was about to reveal some terrible secret of his, "Is my son."
It felt as if I crashed against a brick wall, face-first, and it must've shown because the younger man suddenly broke out in laughter. He, on the other hand, stepped back and crossed his arms.
"I'm his nephew," he smiled, "Do excuse my uncle's sense of humor. It's always been... peculiar."
"Well, it's already been established that I'm peculiar, myself." he chimed in, cocking his head.
"Well, erm, I should really get go—"
"No! No, wait!" the nephew interrupted, stepping closer and taking my hand, "See, uncle? You're scaring the pretty bird away."
"I've done no such thing. It was you that scared her off."
"Me? But I've been nothing but friendly," he protested, with a slight squeeze to my hand, "It was him, wasn't it, pretty bird? He always scares people off."
"No, he doesn't scare me at all." I mumbled, trying to subtly break free of his grip, but he only held on tighter, "I'm used to him."
"Oho!" he cooed, turning to his uncle, "Pretty bird's used to you, huh, uncle?"
"Settle down," he sighed, taking my hand away from his nephew, "And what have we said about unwanted bodily contact?"
"What? You're allowed to hold her hand and I'm not?"
"Well, it isn't unwanted," he smiled, looking down at me in that menacing way he does, "Is it?"
"No."
"Oho!" the nephew exclaimed once again, almost jumping in excitement, "Pretty bird doesn't mind your touch, huh, uncle?"
I had never been easily offended. In fact, it was nearly impossible to offend me at all. But being there, trapped between those two while they did their... comedy routine. I felt like my head was going to burst. Having a litter of siblings of my own, I knew exactly how it felt to be the butt of the joke. To be teased and pulled in every direction for the sole purpose of entertainment.
"Please let go of my hand," I snapped, turning towards the nephew, "And you, don't call me pretty bird ever again, yeah? Now, I really have to go. It was lovely meeting you. Have a good day."
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
A Certain Man, III
On the topic of strange behavior (some would argue all our interactions revolved around mutually strange behavior). I remember this one time I came knocking on his door. He swung it open, as you do, but instead of letting me in, he remained still; staring like it's the first time he's ever seen me. And when, in an effort to break the silence, I greeted him with a hello, he pulled me inside and shoved me against the door.
What transpired next could only be described as a series of willful penetration (Dear me!). It felt like he was trying to prove something, some point that had somehow escaped me; thrust, thrust, thrusting his way to self-assertion. And once he finally had enough (and at times it felt he was never going to) he slumped on the floor, breathing loudly through his nose.
"So," I propped myself up with my elbows, turning towards him, "What was that all about?"
"What was what about?"
"That," I raised an eyebrow towards the door, the sofa, the floor, "You were very... spirited today."
"Am I not always?"
"You are," I inched closer, expecting him to back away, but he didn't, "But not like this."
"I saw you yesterday."
"Oh?"
"I was at some coffee shop. You were out on the street with someone," he said, rubbing his wrist and staring at the ceiling, "You were holding hands."
"Oh, yeah." I smiled, looking over his eye-lashes as they nervously fluttered. He had such beautiful eyes, though you wouldn't be able to tell, hiding behind those god-awful glasses. He never did like being without them, avoiding it at all costs, and for him to voluntarily give them up for so long was a rarity of rarities. There was a vulnerability to him, lying naked on the floor (something that he never did, either); asking about the other man in my life. It made me wonder if he actually realized that he was 'the other man'.
"Who is he?" he whispered, as if by doing so, it didn't really count, "Are you two dating?"
I crawled closer to him, resting my head on his chest, "Yeah."
"Is he new, or?"
"Yeah." I took his arm and forced it around me, and he didn't protest. For some reason, It felt like he was slipping away; and I had this intense desire to be closer, tighter.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
I sighed, drawing circles on his chest, "I guess I wanted to keep him to myself for a while."
"Do you like him?" he shivered, skin warm against my fingers.
"Yeah."
"Do you like me?" he finally looked over, and I couldn't quite read him. I was never really good at this, but this time it was especially difficult; like he purposely threw a veil over his eyes to keep himself hidden.
"Yeah," I nodded, smiling despite myself, "Yeah."
"You're unlike anyone I've ever met in my 30 years of life."
"Does that mean you like me, too?" I teased, poking him in the chest.
He frowned, "I suppose."
What transpired next could only be described as a series of willful penetration (Dear me!). It felt like he was trying to prove something, some point that had somehow escaped me; thrust, thrust, thrusting his way to self-assertion. And once he finally had enough (and at times it felt he was never going to) he slumped on the floor, breathing loudly through his nose.
"So," I propped myself up with my elbows, turning towards him, "What was that all about?"
"What was what about?"
"That," I raised an eyebrow towards the door, the sofa, the floor, "You were very... spirited today."
"Am I not always?"
"You are," I inched closer, expecting him to back away, but he didn't, "But not like this."
"I saw you yesterday."
"Oh?"
"I was at some coffee shop. You were out on the street with someone," he said, rubbing his wrist and staring at the ceiling, "You were holding hands."
"Oh, yeah." I smiled, looking over his eye-lashes as they nervously fluttered. He had such beautiful eyes, though you wouldn't be able to tell, hiding behind those god-awful glasses. He never did like being without them, avoiding it at all costs, and for him to voluntarily give them up for so long was a rarity of rarities. There was a vulnerability to him, lying naked on the floor (something that he never did, either); asking about the other man in my life. It made me wonder if he actually realized that he was 'the other man'.
"Who is he?" he whispered, as if by doing so, it didn't really count, "Are you two dating?"
I crawled closer to him, resting my head on his chest, "Yeah."
"Is he new, or?"
"Yeah." I took his arm and forced it around me, and he didn't protest. For some reason, It felt like he was slipping away; and I had this intense desire to be closer, tighter.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
I sighed, drawing circles on his chest, "I guess I wanted to keep him to myself for a while."
"Do you like him?" he shivered, skin warm against my fingers.
"Yeah."
"Do you like me?" he finally looked over, and I couldn't quite read him. I was never really good at this, but this time it was especially difficult; like he purposely threw a veil over his eyes to keep himself hidden.
"Yeah," I nodded, smiling despite myself, "Yeah."
"You're unlike anyone I've ever met in my 30 years of life."
"Does that mean you like me, too?" I teased, poking him in the chest.
He frowned, "I suppose."
Thursday, December 5, 2013
A Certain Man, II
He's taken up the habit of inspecting my body for any sign of, what is it that he calls it? Wear and tear. It all started after one particularly violent fight with my boyfriend that left me with plenty of bumps and bruises to count. If I had known he'd react the way he did, I probably wouldn't have come to him. But ever since, right after her lets me in, he orders me to strip down to my underwear; pulling off my coat, my shirt, my pants. He would get down to his knees, and proceed to shove and poke every part of my body while mumbling incoherently to himself.
And I don't know why, but I fucking love it.
I love the touch of his concern, sweaty and open-palmed. I love the oppressed desire in the pit of his stomach, which he so carefully conceals. And the not-so-concealed, the totem at the front of his slacks, the one he so boldly presses against my thigh once he's done inspecting me. Only today he didn't do that. Instead, he pulled away, pushed himself to his feet, and walked towards the kitchen.
"Should I put something on?"
"No," he turned around, eyes skimming over me, "No, what you're wearing is fine."
"Or not wearing." I quipped, which he completely ignored (as always).
His kitchen has always been impressive to me. Nothing spectacular in design, but so neatly arranged it put mine to absolute shame. His pantry was always meticulously arranged, fridge well-stacked, counters squeaky clean. His kitchen was truly a reflection of his personality, as was mine (dirty, messy, and full of clutter). After burying his head in his fridge, he took out two plates, with a slice of cake on each, and placed them in front of me.
"For me?" I asked and he nodded, "Both?" he nodded again. (I didn't really get it, either.)
I then proceeded to tell him all about my day. How my sister's wedding was coming up, and how I wasn't looking forward to it at all. I told him how my mother has always pressured me to get married, and now with my younger sister married, she'll be pressuring me even more. I told him how my sister and I were never really close; how she was all my parents wanted in a daughter; kind and god-fearing and settled with a decent man, while I completely rejected the notion of being the perfect little housewife (as for god-fearing... well). I told him how I always felt out of place, even as a child. My brother was my father's, my sister was my mother's, the twins were each other's, and I was my own. I told him of my countless arguments with my parents, and the never-ending list of disappointments I left them with.
"I could only imagine what they'd have to say about this," I nervously laughed, "About you."
"Oh?" he echoed, corners of his lips curving into a smile. He had been silent all along, nodding whenever I looked to him for a response. It used to bother me at first, but by now I had gotten used to it. He never shares his opinion, never gives any advice; he simply listens, and occasionally nods.
"Wouldn't they approve?" he added, squinting as I chewed a forkful of cake.
"I don't know. You're some sort of doctor, aren't you? Or are you a teacher? I don't know, maybe they'd approve." I sighed, drawing circles at the kitchen counter. Something about this topic always made me uncomfortable, even after all this time. It's like a wound that never quite healed. "But they definitely wouldn't approve of me."
"Hm." he set aside his glass and tapped his fingers against the counter. He always had the incredible ability of knowing exactly what I was thinking about. I guess after sharing so much of myself with him, he's come to understand me perfectly (and here I was thinking I was too complex to be understood). "Shall we, then?"
"Should I wash up? I've just had cake and I know you don't like—"
"No, no, definitely not." he smiled, his eyes falling to my lips, "Come as you are."
And I don't know why, but I fucking love it.
I love the touch of his concern, sweaty and open-palmed. I love the oppressed desire in the pit of his stomach, which he so carefully conceals. And the not-so-concealed, the totem at the front of his slacks, the one he so boldly presses against my thigh once he's done inspecting me. Only today he didn't do that. Instead, he pulled away, pushed himself to his feet, and walked towards the kitchen.
"Should I put something on?"
"No," he turned around, eyes skimming over me, "No, what you're wearing is fine."
"Or not wearing." I quipped, which he completely ignored (as always).
His kitchen has always been impressive to me. Nothing spectacular in design, but so neatly arranged it put mine to absolute shame. His pantry was always meticulously arranged, fridge well-stacked, counters squeaky clean. His kitchen was truly a reflection of his personality, as was mine (dirty, messy, and full of clutter). After burying his head in his fridge, he took out two plates, with a slice of cake on each, and placed them in front of me.
"For me?" I asked and he nodded, "Both?" he nodded again. (I didn't really get it, either.)
I then proceeded to tell him all about my day. How my sister's wedding was coming up, and how I wasn't looking forward to it at all. I told him how my mother has always pressured me to get married, and now with my younger sister married, she'll be pressuring me even more. I told him how my sister and I were never really close; how she was all my parents wanted in a daughter; kind and god-fearing and settled with a decent man, while I completely rejected the notion of being the perfect little housewife (as for god-fearing... well). I told him how I always felt out of place, even as a child. My brother was my father's, my sister was my mother's, the twins were each other's, and I was my own. I told him of my countless arguments with my parents, and the never-ending list of disappointments I left them with.
"I could only imagine what they'd have to say about this," I nervously laughed, "About you."
"Oh?" he echoed, corners of his lips curving into a smile. He had been silent all along, nodding whenever I looked to him for a response. It used to bother me at first, but by now I had gotten used to it. He never shares his opinion, never gives any advice; he simply listens, and occasionally nods.
"Wouldn't they approve?" he added, squinting as I chewed a forkful of cake.
"I don't know. You're some sort of doctor, aren't you? Or are you a teacher? I don't know, maybe they'd approve." I sighed, drawing circles at the kitchen counter. Something about this topic always made me uncomfortable, even after all this time. It's like a wound that never quite healed. "But they definitely wouldn't approve of me."
"Hm." he set aside his glass and tapped his fingers against the counter. He always had the incredible ability of knowing exactly what I was thinking about. I guess after sharing so much of myself with him, he's come to understand me perfectly (and here I was thinking I was too complex to be understood). "Shall we, then?"
"Should I wash up? I've just had cake and I know you don't like—"
"No, no, definitely not." he smiled, his eyes falling to my lips, "Come as you are."
Sunday, December 1, 2013
A Certain Man
I don't exactly understand how things ended up the way they are, but well—oh well?
He started out as some shady figure in the background, lurking around like a toothache waiting to happen. I dismissed his existence entirely, simply because he was as intriguing as a wooden log, and when he spoke, he had the charm of one, too. And his eyes didn't move. They never moved. A friend of mine saw him once (it was an accident, she never saw him again), and said he had the eyes of a fish. I guess he does. Big, round, bulging eyes that looked at you squarely in the face and just stared without emotion. His features weren't particularly handsome on their own, and when added up, they weren't homely, but not exactly attractive either. All in all he was bland, in both looks and personality.
Yet here I am, sprawled on his bedroom floor, multiple pairs of underwear scattered about (he insists on putting on a fresh pair right after we're done). He's in the bathroom, brushing his teeth (he insists on brushing his teeth afterwards, too). Him and his toothpaste kisses, they always taste like mint Aquafresh. I can't fucking stand it. It reminds me of that first hour at school; when everybody's sulking miserably in their seats, missing the warm comfort of their beds.
We're not really dating, though many would make that assumption. To be honest, I don't really know what we are. I frequent his place whenever I feel the need to; after a particularly nasty fight with my boyfriend, after a shit day at work, early in the morning or late at night. He's become my sanctuary, my very own island retreat. Whenever the world proved too much (or not enough), I'd come knocking on his door; one, two, three, and before I get to the fourth he would swing it open and say, "How can I be of service, miss?"
And to his amusement I would say, "Love me."
(Only it's not really love, but another four-letter word. And he never finds it amusing.)
He doesn't say much. In fact, he hardly says anything at all. Maybe it's because I never shut up; going on about every single detail of my life. Sometime it's about my day at work, other times it's some random memory from my childhood—but whatever I'm talking about, he listens as if it's the most fascinating thing he's ever heard. And once I'm done, he'd give me one of his smiles. His entire face would wrinkle and fold into itself, like a deflated balloon, all except his eyes; his eyes would always remain unfazed.
"Do you want something to eat?" he asked, in that calm voice of his. He was so soft-spoken, words would just pour out of his mouth like warm honey. I love his voice, I love the way he talks; I guess it's the only thing about him I truly like. Rather ironic, seeing as he hardly speaks at all.
Without really waiting for an answer (it wasn't really a question), he placed a tray on the floor and sat next to me, "Put something on, you'll get a cold."
"And here I was thinking you'd appreciate my naked form."
"I do." he said, picking up a pair of underwear and placing it carefully on my lap.
"It's dirty."
"Aren't you the one who's always agitated by my, what do you call it? Obsessive hygienic practices."
"Doesn't mean I want to wear your dirty underwear."
"It isn't dirty. Put it on."
I promptly obliged, sliding them over my thighs while he silently watches over, "Now eat."
God, I love it when he's like this; all sexual frustration and fatherly concern. He always made sure to tread on that delicate line between them, careful not to sway one way or the other. Sometimes I wished he wasn't so careful, that he would tilt whichever way he preferred; but I'm not really sure which side he'd choose, and I don't know which I'd rather he chose.
"And here I was thinking you'd ask for another go."
"I will, once you're done eating."
He started out as some shady figure in the background, lurking around like a toothache waiting to happen. I dismissed his existence entirely, simply because he was as intriguing as a wooden log, and when he spoke, he had the charm of one, too. And his eyes didn't move. They never moved. A friend of mine saw him once (it was an accident, she never saw him again), and said he had the eyes of a fish. I guess he does. Big, round, bulging eyes that looked at you squarely in the face and just stared without emotion. His features weren't particularly handsome on their own, and when added up, they weren't homely, but not exactly attractive either. All in all he was bland, in both looks and personality.
Yet here I am, sprawled on his bedroom floor, multiple pairs of underwear scattered about (he insists on putting on a fresh pair right after we're done). He's in the bathroom, brushing his teeth (he insists on brushing his teeth afterwards, too). Him and his toothpaste kisses, they always taste like mint Aquafresh. I can't fucking stand it. It reminds me of that first hour at school; when everybody's sulking miserably in their seats, missing the warm comfort of their beds.
We're not really dating, though many would make that assumption. To be honest, I don't really know what we are. I frequent his place whenever I feel the need to; after a particularly nasty fight with my boyfriend, after a shit day at work, early in the morning or late at night. He's become my sanctuary, my very own island retreat. Whenever the world proved too much (or not enough), I'd come knocking on his door; one, two, three, and before I get to the fourth he would swing it open and say, "How can I be of service, miss?"
And to his amusement I would say, "Love me."
(Only it's not really love, but another four-letter word. And he never finds it amusing.)
He doesn't say much. In fact, he hardly says anything at all. Maybe it's because I never shut up; going on about every single detail of my life. Sometime it's about my day at work, other times it's some random memory from my childhood—but whatever I'm talking about, he listens as if it's the most fascinating thing he's ever heard. And once I'm done, he'd give me one of his smiles. His entire face would wrinkle and fold into itself, like a deflated balloon, all except his eyes; his eyes would always remain unfazed.
"Do you want something to eat?" he asked, in that calm voice of his. He was so soft-spoken, words would just pour out of his mouth like warm honey. I love his voice, I love the way he talks; I guess it's the only thing about him I truly like. Rather ironic, seeing as he hardly speaks at all.
Without really waiting for an answer (it wasn't really a question), he placed a tray on the floor and sat next to me, "Put something on, you'll get a cold."
"And here I was thinking you'd appreciate my naked form."
"I do." he said, picking up a pair of underwear and placing it carefully on my lap.
"It's dirty."
"Aren't you the one who's always agitated by my, what do you call it? Obsessive hygienic practices."
"Doesn't mean I want to wear your dirty underwear."
"It isn't dirty. Put it on."
I promptly obliged, sliding them over my thighs while he silently watches over, "Now eat."
God, I love it when he's like this; all sexual frustration and fatherly concern. He always made sure to tread on that delicate line between them, careful not to sway one way or the other. Sometimes I wished he wasn't so careful, that he would tilt whichever way he preferred; but I'm not really sure which side he'd choose, and I don't know which I'd rather he chose.
"And here I was thinking you'd ask for another go."
"I will, once you're done eating."
Friday, November 22, 2013
Then, Night to Bust
The moment I stepped in, I was immediately struck by the overwhelming smell of
alcohol and sweat. Paired with the oppressive heat and lack of ventilation, and I was almost ready to gag. I could barely see anything, if not for a flurry of people: glowing,
flashing, illuminated.
And there she was.
I didn't quite recognize her at first; slumped over the counter, head buried in her hands. But as I was making my way towards her, I realized she'd been looking at me through the reflection of the mirror all along. I slipped next to her and waited for the slightest bit of acknowledgement (a stupid move, really, what with her track record so far). I had initially decided to wait it out, but in my hasty impatience, I knew I was bound to break.
And some part of me was overjoyed, seeing her here. Our encounter had been so long ago (4 months and 12 days, if you were counting) but I was as unsuccessful in forgetting about it as I was in finding her. I don't really know what I was hoping to achieve in finding her, but I looked with all my might (or, as much as I could without making an ass out of myself). And as I was finally coming to terms with my defeat, she appears, almost out of thin air!
"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes!" I start, already regretting my approach. There was something so unattainable about her; how she was never truly present, too lost within herself to allow for an actual connection between us. It was only when I provoked her that I got any response at all.
She looked over at me and frowned. Her eyes skimmed over my face, settling on each feature as if she was making a mental inventory of it all. Then, within half a heartbeat, she shot to her feet and grabbed my arm, "Come."
I could hear the music gradually fade as we journeyed the narrow corridor, there were people scurrying in every direction; and she maneuvered so easily between them, as if she's done this countless times before, while I struggled behind her. Then we made our way up a steep stairway, and again, there were people sprawled at every side; this time she held my wrist and pulled me along.
When we finally made it out to the street, the autumn air came blustering towards us, cold and harsh, but it was a welcomed change to the stifling heat of the club. Her lips stained crimson and she started sniffling; and in the yellow glare of the street lights it almost looked like she was smiling.
I must have forgotten how beautiful she was, because I found myself marveling at the curve of her lips, and how her unkept hair fell in mismatched curls over her face. Her eyes were an icy blue, when she was occupied with her own thoughts, but once she broke out of it, a cloudy murkiness took over them, as if she was suddenly made aware of her own existence.
"You hungry?" she asked, barely finishing her sentence when I already answered with a yes.
"Come on, then."
Maybe it was my own wishful thinking but it felt as if some preexisting barrier had somehow been removed. Every once in a while, I'd start a conversation with her; most of the times I'd fail to even get it started, but sometimes she would humor me, mumbling her replies before quickly falling to silence once again. Yet it wasn't an unpleasant sort of silence. It felt comfortable; like the fluid silence of casual companionship.
And when the night finally came to an end, I asked her if she had a good time. She took a few moments to consider (which wasn't a good sign), and finally answered with a yes.
Then I told her it was the most fun I've had in a very long time.
And she said: "We better work on that, then."
*Previous part: http://relinquish-my-masochism.blogspot.com/2013/10/one-crows-rows.html
And there she was.
I didn't quite recognize her at first; slumped over the counter, head buried in her hands. But as I was making my way towards her, I realized she'd been looking at me through the reflection of the mirror all along. I slipped next to her and waited for the slightest bit of acknowledgement (a stupid move, really, what with her track record so far). I had initially decided to wait it out, but in my hasty impatience, I knew I was bound to break.
And some part of me was overjoyed, seeing her here. Our encounter had been so long ago (4 months and 12 days, if you were counting) but I was as unsuccessful in forgetting about it as I was in finding her. I don't really know what I was hoping to achieve in finding her, but I looked with all my might (or, as much as I could without making an ass out of myself). And as I was finally coming to terms with my defeat, she appears, almost out of thin air!
"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes!" I start, already regretting my approach. There was something so unattainable about her; how she was never truly present, too lost within herself to allow for an actual connection between us. It was only when I provoked her that I got any response at all.
She looked over at me and frowned. Her eyes skimmed over my face, settling on each feature as if she was making a mental inventory of it all. Then, within half a heartbeat, she shot to her feet and grabbed my arm, "Come."
I could hear the music gradually fade as we journeyed the narrow corridor, there were people scurrying in every direction; and she maneuvered so easily between them, as if she's done this countless times before, while I struggled behind her. Then we made our way up a steep stairway, and again, there were people sprawled at every side; this time she held my wrist and pulled me along.
When we finally made it out to the street, the autumn air came blustering towards us, cold and harsh, but it was a welcomed change to the stifling heat of the club. Her lips stained crimson and she started sniffling; and in the yellow glare of the street lights it almost looked like she was smiling.
I must have forgotten how beautiful she was, because I found myself marveling at the curve of her lips, and how her unkept hair fell in mismatched curls over her face. Her eyes were an icy blue, when she was occupied with her own thoughts, but once she broke out of it, a cloudy murkiness took over them, as if she was suddenly made aware of her own existence.
"You hungry?" she asked, barely finishing her sentence when I already answered with a yes.
"Come on, then."
Maybe it was my own wishful thinking but it felt as if some preexisting barrier had somehow been removed. Every once in a while, I'd start a conversation with her; most of the times I'd fail to even get it started, but sometimes she would humor me, mumbling her replies before quickly falling to silence once again. Yet it wasn't an unpleasant sort of silence. It felt comfortable; like the fluid silence of casual companionship.
And when the night finally came to an end, I asked her if she had a good time. She took a few moments to consider (which wasn't a good sign), and finally answered with a yes.
Then I told her it was the most fun I've had in a very long time.
And she said: "We better work on that, then."
*Previous part: http://relinquish-my-masochism.blogspot.com/2013/10/one-crows-rows.html
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Homophone
I have a dream or two,
in them you're always mine.
I'm always first in queue,
in fact there is no line.
Do excuse my verse, but there is truth in rhymes.
(All right, I'll stop now)
But please,
please, please, let me kiss you like I did yesterday. And you, lub-dub, lub-dub against my tongue. Maybe then, you could kiss me back. And I, throb, thump; from the soles of my feet to the very tip of my—
But darling, don't you see? It's not at all what it sounds like.
But darling, can't you tell? It's love, in its own way.
in them you're always mine.
I'm always first in queue,
in fact there is no line.
Do excuse my verse, but there is truth in rhymes.
(All right, I'll stop now)
But please,
please, please, let me kiss you like I did yesterday. And you, lub-dub, lub-dub against my tongue. Maybe then, you could kiss me back. And I, throb, thump; from the soles of my feet to the very tip of my—
But darling, don't you see? It's not at all what it sounds like.
But darling, can't you tell? It's love, in its own way.
Friday, October 25, 2013
First, Crows & Rows
We met at a bookstore at some abandoned part of town. It was one of those second-hand bookstores, where young city dwellers came to browse "pre-loved books" (it is, after all, the only fashionable way to read). I was there out of necessity; living on the meager budget of a student meant I couldn't really afford new books (which is a shame, really, what with all the intricate cover illustrations, nowadays).
It was him that approached me (a detail that we would later disagree about), tall and scrawny and all too proud of himself. He said he'd seen me around several times, so occupied with my own thoughts that I wouldn't notice a fire if it were burning right next to me. And what is it that consumes you so? he asked.
"Figuring out how much of my money I could spend without having to sleep on an empty stomach."
"And the verdict is?"
"Well, I really want these books but I haven't had a thing to eat all day, so."
"So," he inched closer, frowning as he tilted the books towards him. I would hardly call it a frown, though; it was more like that wrinkled expression middle-aged men liked to use when intrigued. And it wasn't until I was studying his frown that I realized that I hadn't even bothered looking at him so far.
And he wasn't at all what I imagined he'd look like. There was a calm stillness to his face, but he was not distant; ever present with a half-smile. Eyes the color of honey, that quickly turned dark as black the moment he felt my gaze, as if to conceal some terrible secret of his. And then there were his eye-brows; raven-black and eagerly compensating for the mildness of his expressions with over-the-top movements.
"Ah," he echoed, "She has finally graced me with eye-contact!"
I shrugged and took a step back, to which he instantly took a step forward, "Well, what do you think?"
"About?"
"This." he grinned, pointing towards his face.
"Well, it doesn't really fit your general demeanor, does it?" I quipped, a bit too aggressively. Something about the way he behaved provoked me to do so (which I later realized was his intention all along).
"So you're either displeased with my looks or my demeanor," he smiled, lowering his head until his chin was almost touching his throat, "I'm not really sure which I'd rather you disliked."
And when my lips parted I was too occupied with the grumbling protests of my stomach to actually say anything. I looked down at the books, sighing, as I shoved them at a random shelf and made my way out. He burst out of the shop, several moments later, stomping towards me. Only then did it dawn on me that I had walked out mid-conversation without saying a word. I was going to apologize, at first, but he was going on about the incredible rudeness of it all that I decided not to. I started walking and, of course, he followed; still very frustrated about my appalling lack of common courtesy. I ignored him as one would ignore a child on one of his tantrums. Not that he noticed, really, as he was too busy talking to himself.
And then, finally, the stars aligned and he quieted down; and after several blocks worth of silence, he abruptly stopped. I had every intention to keep walking, but for reasons beyond my comprehension, decided to stop as well. And when I turned to him, he looked at me with an expression I could only describe as heartbreak; it was almost as if all the forgotten wounds of his past suddenly split open and started to bleed.
"I'm sorry," I finally said; neither smiling, nor frowning, "I am."
And then I carried on.
It was him that approached me (a detail that we would later disagree about), tall and scrawny and all too proud of himself. He said he'd seen me around several times, so occupied with my own thoughts that I wouldn't notice a fire if it were burning right next to me. And what is it that consumes you so? he asked.
"Figuring out how much of my money I could spend without having to sleep on an empty stomach."
"And the verdict is?"
"Well, I really want these books but I haven't had a thing to eat all day, so."
"So," he inched closer, frowning as he tilted the books towards him. I would hardly call it a frown, though; it was more like that wrinkled expression middle-aged men liked to use when intrigued. And it wasn't until I was studying his frown that I realized that I hadn't even bothered looking at him so far.
And he wasn't at all what I imagined he'd look like. There was a calm stillness to his face, but he was not distant; ever present with a half-smile. Eyes the color of honey, that quickly turned dark as black the moment he felt my gaze, as if to conceal some terrible secret of his. And then there were his eye-brows; raven-black and eagerly compensating for the mildness of his expressions with over-the-top movements.
"Ah," he echoed, "She has finally graced me with eye-contact!"
I shrugged and took a step back, to which he instantly took a step forward, "Well, what do you think?"
"About?"
"This." he grinned, pointing towards his face.
"Well, it doesn't really fit your general demeanor, does it?" I quipped, a bit too aggressively. Something about the way he behaved provoked me to do so (which I later realized was his intention all along).
"So you're either displeased with my looks or my demeanor," he smiled, lowering his head until his chin was almost touching his throat, "I'm not really sure which I'd rather you disliked."
And when my lips parted I was too occupied with the grumbling protests of my stomach to actually say anything. I looked down at the books, sighing, as I shoved them at a random shelf and made my way out. He burst out of the shop, several moments later, stomping towards me. Only then did it dawn on me that I had walked out mid-conversation without saying a word. I was going to apologize, at first, but he was going on about the incredible rudeness of it all that I decided not to. I started walking and, of course, he followed; still very frustrated about my appalling lack of common courtesy. I ignored him as one would ignore a child on one of his tantrums. Not that he noticed, really, as he was too busy talking to himself.
And then, finally, the stars aligned and he quieted down; and after several blocks worth of silence, he abruptly stopped. I had every intention to keep walking, but for reasons beyond my comprehension, decided to stop as well. And when I turned to him, he looked at me with an expression I could only describe as heartbreak; it was almost as if all the forgotten wounds of his past suddenly split open and started to bleed.
"I'm sorry," I finally said; neither smiling, nor frowning, "I am."
And then I carried on.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Electronic Seduction
He was revulsion concentrate, and I wanted to fuck up so badly.
He was even in the air; reeking of cheap vinyl and moldy basements (master pleather, miasmic overlord), and I wasn't quite sure, but I thought:
Trust in lust. (Or what I later came to discover was the rhythmic palpitations of synthpop.)
E-e-e-electronic seduction.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
The Fallen Leaf
I swear I tried my best
(my best wasn't much, it seems)
But I swear I fucking tried
(for a good five minutes, at least)
No, but listen, listen; it was magical, like sinking water lilies and corn-chip dust
(The water lily that sunk! From corn-chip to dust!)
Do you see it now? The fallen leaf
(who was it that decided I was a leaf, again?)
And I swear, it tasted like honeyed almonds
(and soy sauce?)
Yes, that doesn't sound all that appetizing, but I swear, it was delicious
(in its own way)
And if you made it this far
(and you're wondering)
This is not a cautionary tale.
(my best wasn't much, it seems)
But I swear I fucking tried
(for a good five minutes, at least)
No, but listen, listen; it was magical, like sinking water lilies and corn-chip dust
(The water lily that sunk! From corn-chip to dust!)
Do you see it now? The fallen leaf
(who was it that decided I was a leaf, again?)
And I swear, it tasted like honeyed almonds
(and soy sauce?)
Yes, that doesn't sound all that appetizing, but I swear, it was delicious
(in its own way)
And if you made it this far
(and you're wondering)
This is not a cautionary tale.
Monday, September 16, 2013
It's only just begun
Lately, I've been plagued with the feeling that something—some grand and life changing thing—was about to happen; like the momentary halt before crossing a road.
And even that, in its crippling anticipation, isn't all too bad.
It's that gnawing question, that nipping thought:
What if
there's nothing to come?
What if
this was all it would ever be?
And even that, in its crippling anticipation, isn't all too bad.
It's that gnawing question, that nipping thought:
What if
there's nothing to come?
What if
this was all it would ever be?
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
You are my (tragic flaw)
"I'll watch over you,"
He barely spoke, he breathed. And on his breath were a thousand lies that he thought she needed to hear. And then there was anger, and loneliness, and fear.
"Oho!" she laughed, kissing his cheek, kissing his brow, kissing his temple. All she was able to do, lately, was kiss him. He joked that had he known its effect on her, he would have gotten himself sick a long time ago. To that, she could only smile. She couldn't possibly tell him that her memories will soon be his only existence; that she only wanted to savor every last drop of him. The taste of his lips, the feel of his skin, the breath that will soon be his last.
"Don't tell me you believe in god and the after life, now?" she added, breathless.
He smiled, arms coiling around her waist. Resting his chin against her shoulder, he nuzzled against her neck, playfully tussling her hair with his nose. She heard his deep inhale, chest expanding as he took in the scent of her hair, and for a moment time stopped. Him, full of her; and her, full of him. For a moment they were ten, they were seventeen, they were twenty-five. They were friends, then lovers, then strangers, then lovers once more. They were the innocence of adolescence, they were youth and its despair—
For a moment they were in a future that will never be. It's not fair, she choked, It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair.
"Would you believe me if I said I did?" he finally said, pulling away and pulling her in.
She blinked, her finger tracing the outline of his face, exploring the features that she came to know better than her own, "No."
He nodded, sinking into the pillow. He looked so unlike himself, then—frail and utterly defeated—she could barely recognize him. She knew that he hated it, that he despised what he came to be. At times, she managed to justify her cause, she even saw godliness in it. Let him fight, let him fight, let him fight. But too often, she could only see it as what it truly was; selfishness. There is no godliness in that, only cruelty.
And yet she could never bring herself to willingly let him go, no matter how hard she tried. She loved him too much to be selfless. I'm so sorry; I'm selfish and I'm weak and I cannot let you go.
"Would you believe me if I said I wanted to?" he frowned, black brows falling over his eyes, "For you."
For me?
Be it one god, or two, or twenty, or simply an alliance of dead stars—Whoever you are, whatever you may be—I beg you; please, please, let this not be the end of us,
please.
He barely spoke, he breathed. And on his breath were a thousand lies that he thought she needed to hear. And then there was anger, and loneliness, and fear.
"Oho!" she laughed, kissing his cheek, kissing his brow, kissing his temple. All she was able to do, lately, was kiss him. He joked that had he known its effect on her, he would have gotten himself sick a long time ago. To that, she could only smile. She couldn't possibly tell him that her memories will soon be his only existence; that she only wanted to savor every last drop of him. The taste of his lips, the feel of his skin, the breath that will soon be his last.
"Don't tell me you believe in god and the after life, now?" she added, breathless.
He smiled, arms coiling around her waist. Resting his chin against her shoulder, he nuzzled against her neck, playfully tussling her hair with his nose. She heard his deep inhale, chest expanding as he took in the scent of her hair, and for a moment time stopped. Him, full of her; and her, full of him. For a moment they were ten, they were seventeen, they were twenty-five. They were friends, then lovers, then strangers, then lovers once more. They were the innocence of adolescence, they were youth and its despair—
For a moment they were in a future that will never be. It's not fair, she choked, It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair.
"Would you believe me if I said I did?" he finally said, pulling away and pulling her in.
She blinked, her finger tracing the outline of his face, exploring the features that she came to know better than her own, "No."
He nodded, sinking into the pillow. He looked so unlike himself, then—frail and utterly defeated—she could barely recognize him. She knew that he hated it, that he despised what he came to be. At times, she managed to justify her cause, she even saw godliness in it. Let him fight, let him fight, let him fight. But too often, she could only see it as what it truly was; selfishness. There is no godliness in that, only cruelty.
And yet she could never bring herself to willingly let him go, no matter how hard she tried. She loved him too much to be selfless. I'm so sorry; I'm selfish and I'm weak and I cannot let you go.
"Would you believe me if I said I wanted to?" he frowned, black brows falling over his eyes, "For you."
For me?
Be it one god, or two, or twenty, or simply an alliance of dead stars—Whoever you are, whatever you may be—I beg you; please, please, let this not be the end of us,
please.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
You are my (flailing heart)
"Don't flatter yourself," he said, smiling coolly through a cloud of smoke, "I don't hate you." He had always waved his lies with such cockiness, such bravado, hoping that it would somehow fool her; but no matter how well he believed he had spun his web, she could always tell.
"It's okay if you did," she softly added, losing herself in the lines of her palms. It'd be easier if you did, she thought, but please, please don't.
She didn't know how much time had passed—she was never able to keep track of time, not with him—but when she looked up, it was already dark. He was looking at her, eyes cold and harsh as the night, but against the faint glimmer of the street light, she could see a speck of color; evergreen, ever hopeful. Your eyes betray you.
Something in the way he peered into her made her suddenly aware of how painful it was to stand her ground, and she found herself dropping her mask, shedding her skin, and stepping nervously under the mercy of his gaze. Trying—and failing—to prove that she was better than what time had made her out to be.
And god, how she loved him; now more than ever. How his smile flared against her cheeks, filling her up with all the happiness, and the bitterness, and the selfishness, and the anger. I wish I was as strong as you wanted me to be, I wish I had fought for you as you would have fought for me.
And as she smoothed her dress and tucked in her hair, something he once said immediately came to mind, and she could tell from the amusement spreading across his face that he was thinking about it, too.
"I like you as the fucking mess you are."
Were* were* were*
"It's okay if you did," she softly added, losing herself in the lines of her palms. It'd be easier if you did, she thought, but please, please don't.
She didn't know how much time had passed—she was never able to keep track of time, not with him—but when she looked up, it was already dark. He was looking at her, eyes cold and harsh as the night, but against the faint glimmer of the street light, she could see a speck of color; evergreen, ever hopeful. Your eyes betray you.
Something in the way he peered into her made her suddenly aware of how painful it was to stand her ground, and she found herself dropping her mask, shedding her skin, and stepping nervously under the mercy of his gaze. Trying—and failing—to prove that she was better than what time had made her out to be.
And god, how she loved him; now more than ever. How his smile flared against her cheeks, filling her up with all the happiness, and the bitterness, and the selfishness, and the anger. I wish I was as strong as you wanted me to be, I wish I had fought for you as you would have fought for me.
And as she smoothed her dress and tucked in her hair, something he once said immediately came to mind, and she could tell from the amusement spreading across his face that he was thinking about it, too.
"I like you as the fucking mess you are."
Were* were* were*
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
"Here are the young men, the weight on their shoulders."
And in her darkest hours
She prays
To the god she proudly renounced
"Please, please save me."
She prays
To the god she proudly renounced
"Please, please save me."
Friday, May 31, 2013
"The happiest songs all end with a smile."
Doom,
Doom, doom.
They called it music, but to me;
Doom.
Nothing reminds me of you.
Not even this, no.
I'm sorry. I can't lie anymore.
Doom, doom.
They called it music, but to me;
Doom.
Nothing reminds me of you.
Not even this, no.
I'm sorry. I can't lie anymore.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
M (for the Masochist)
I knew a girl that wore her bruises as if it had never occurred to her that it was a sin.
She called them 'love bites' (they were not),
but they were one and plenty.
Red and black and blue;
and beautiful
like the amorphous glimmer
of dying stars.
And she wore them with honour;
for how could she possibly hate anything from those hands?
Impossible, impossible.
Lover, don't frown—lover, she loved it!
Could you ever understand that?
She called them 'love bites' (they were not),
but they were one and plenty.
Red and black and blue;
and beautiful
like the amorphous glimmer
of dying stars.
And she wore them with honour;
for how could she possibly hate anything from those hands?
Impossible, impossible.
Lover, don't frown—lover, she loved it!
Could you ever understand that?
Friday, April 19, 2013
Cocksure
He had a tattoo that started (or ended) at that area right above his groin.
It was of a dragon or a snake (or whatever boys think is manly these days).
I asked him where it ended, and he smiled and said, "Would you like to find out?"
and I thought; what an obnoxious little fuck.
Well,
let's have a look, then.
It was of a dragon or a snake (or whatever boys think is manly these days).
I asked him where it ended, and he smiled and said, "Would you like to find out?"
and I thought; what an obnoxious little fuck.
Well,
let's have a look, then.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Imprudence
You are,
All the Wednesdays in June
(And the Thursdays that follow).
You are, we are,
Juliet and Lancelot;
Not quite right,
But damned if we were wrong.
And, Goodness (goodness!) how the grass felt,
Wet against your back and mine.
Then and there;
Why, I almost loved you!
Until the sun reached in and,
Poked its finger down my throat.
And here we are, and here you are;
Disgusting,
But lovely, still.
All the Wednesdays in June
(And the Thursdays that follow).
You are, we are,
Juliet and Lancelot;
Not quite right,
But damned if we were wrong.
And, Goodness (goodness!) how the grass felt,
Wet against your back and mine.
Then and there;
Why, I almost loved you!
Until the sun reached in and,
Poked its finger down my throat.
And here we are, and here you are;
Disgusting,
But lovely, still.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
The Sun
Ah, that warm afternoon in March!
When you take off your socks and
Tip-toe across marble floors,
Through the doorway; out to the sun.
And you tip-toe, once again; quick on your burning feet.
And how it glistened, how it shivered with that playful blow of wind;
Desire in its simplest form.
And you, with your trickling crimson flush;
Thrust yourself into the water
and
Surrender.
Helios, don't you know?
All she ever wanted was to melt into the sun.
When you take off your socks and
Tip-toe across marble floors,
Through the doorway; out to the sun.
And you tip-toe, once again; quick on your burning feet.
And how it glistened, how it shivered with that playful blow of wind;
Desire in its simplest form.
And you, with your trickling crimson flush;
Thrust yourself into the water
and
Surrender.
Helios, don't you know?
All she ever wanted was to melt into the sun.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
The Boy
A definite mistake, I know.
But who cares? Maybe I want to be wrong. Maybe I like a boy who treats me like a wet sock and only ever kisses me when he wants to f—
So what?
The way his gaze felt on my back, it was cold and warm at once, and which was which I couldn't tell. He said he liked how his name sounded on my lips, and when I pointed out that he hadn't told me, he smiled and said that even he didn't know his own name.
Well, okay.
His hair was silver grey and down to his shoulders; beautiful, if there was ever a word to describe it. And when I stared for too long, he came closer and, with his fingers, slipped a strand into my mouth. It tasted like cigarettes and coconut and lime. And I thought, my god, never have I ever tasted something so absolutely...
Wrong.
But who cares? Maybe I want to be wrong. Maybe I like a boy who treats me like a wet sock and only ever kisses me when he wants to f—
So what?
The way his gaze felt on my back, it was cold and warm at once, and which was which I couldn't tell. He said he liked how his name sounded on my lips, and when I pointed out that he hadn't told me, he smiled and said that even he didn't know his own name.
Well, okay.
His hair was silver grey and down to his shoulders; beautiful, if there was ever a word to describe it. And when I stared for too long, he came closer and, with his fingers, slipped a strand into my mouth. It tasted like cigarettes and coconut and lime. And I thought, my god, never have I ever tasted something so absolutely...
Wrong.
Friday, January 11, 2013
The Fox
Sometimes I think I want to hide you somewhere where no one could ever find you; like a fox burying its prized possession. Then I fear I'd bury you too deep. So deep that even I wouldn't find you. But I would never, never stop looking; even if my nails were to break and fall, I would dig with my teeth, and my nose, and my paws—until everything, everything falls apart. And even then, I wouldn't stop.
And how could I? When you're somewhere, waiting.
Or are you hiding?
And how could I? When you're somewhere, waiting.
Or are you hiding?
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