To You, in Grey
"It's December," she says quietly, eyes glancing upwards at the sky to reveal the vein-threaded whites of her eyes. "This is awful warm weather for December."
He's cold, but doesn't say anything - just shoves his hands deeper into her coat pockets. She tilts her head back a little more to look at him upside down. That sky, that washed-out grey-toned sky frames his face, hair, and neck (that throbs in a certain place beneath his jawbone along with his heartbeat, if you look close enough. She does).
"How are you?"
She has to ask.
He shrugs. "Fine. Yesterday though, that was another story."
"Yeah… Just one of those days when you really want to go home, and lie in bed and read until you fall asleep." He tells her. "Those days."
"Those days," she repeats.
If she laughs, he doesn't ask why.
The grass beneath them is faded from the cold weather; she's annoyed all the snow has melted already and can't wait for another bout of it. As she shifts her weight, the mud beneath her worn out running shoes makes a rich squelching sound, bubbles in dirty water. Everything looks so drained, exhausted, lifeless. Even their conversation.
Far too grey.
"So, how are you?" he asks once the silence-flavoured-with-makeshift-conversation has evaporated. It feels like a duty. Their words are full of holes.
She's slipping through the spaces…
And she shrugs. "Fine. Yesterday, though, that was another story…"
(notes: To you, in grey is the basic translation of Dir en Grey (a great band's name). This piece is unrelated to them.
Keegan; if you read this, I'm sorry. Like I said, I turn everything into a fucking poem or whatever. I'm not sure if this has any truth in it; my sense of reality is warped. I think I just liked the words.)