|In the beds we never make
Author: tolerate PM
We hide ourselves in respiratory lines.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Poetry - Words: 485 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 2 - Published: 01-04-13 - Status: Complete - id: 3089100
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
You converse with your eyes on my words. Yours were
running taps incessantly smothering your fingers in the water and
you couldn't stand the weight of it all
and you're letting go.
So I say you are clumsy, in more ways than one.
You hand me down a smile I have seen for quite some time,
and you tell me that you are more than that. I pray that you will stay
the same for there won't be nostalgia in the trees of
the boulevards we will pass.
And they have already passed us by.
You love your vehicle, but I guess she's always second-best.
I think sometimes you love me more, but we tend not to talk about this
because I recognise your tremble-fear and quakes inside
the back of your eyes.
My hand will always cover half your face. You will
let your eyelids fall like blankets over you and my fingers
become bedspreads under you.
In Spring, you pick an Arbutus flower to give to me.
You are rough like an unwashed leather jacket, but you don't
pick flowers just like how you asphyxiate on alcohol. Now you yawn because
you haven't slept in days studying a foreign language.
You were just good at telling without saying it at all.
You are intoxicated when you pray.
You rub cold hands together just as unstably as you are
and you drown us in the compound anagrams of our names. And you say that
it makes you feel like we are more than what we already are.
We can intertwine our hands so when you're sick and tired of being alive,
I can feel your heartbeat in your palms.
I become your circular background noise,
the endless thumping of beats that never die off. We sink into the bed
that we never tried to make and hide ourselves
in respiratory lines.
You don't know anything about science and its laws.
One day, I'll teach you with a book in my hands. And someday, when your hands
tousle down and in the chest of which no life exists, you'll say those words in complete white lips.
I pray too. I pray for you. I pray that waves would stop crashing into rocks
and crash into the ashes in my heart I can't sweep away.
My reach ends there,
I want to listen to your words.
Yet I think it really doesn't matter. We both know what those words will be,
and I know how you will say it. You don't always look into my eyes, but you like to
clench your fists into my back—you like to make our skins give way
and wait for what I'll say.
There's no need for that, you know it too. Those words
are the words that we breathe each day.