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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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*