Soundtrack: Nothing Good About Goodbye - Hinder
You smoke and I stare, and there's silence in between our out of synch breathes. We should fill them with words I suppose, but I'm worn out and you're somewhere else, so for now we sit quiet. You have what my mother used to call piano-fingers, long and slender. It looks elegant when you hold the cigarette, or well sort-of cigarette in this case(ahem…and look away). It looks right there, like it belongs, like it's meant to be smoked and held by you, right all the way to the inhale-exhale and then smoke.
The smoke is what fascinates me and the smell; it's thrilling really how I can taste the tobacco on my own tongue when I'm not even the one smoking. You have different brands almost every week, trying them out, testing to find your favourite? Who knows? I've never asked, I've just noted it, and wondered if I could have known the change simply by kissing you.
I'd never look so right with you though. So maybe it's better this way. You smoke and I watch wondering what could become.
Today's from Jamaica, home-made and one-of-a-kind (doesn't even need a box) you told me earlier with a cheeky grin and a mischievous look thrown at me from over your shoulder. Questioning wasn't even a choice, and really, I don't need to know. You're old enough to know what's right and what's wrong. We traded in our childhoods for the cheapest and saddest version of young adults we could find. With that we also promised each others forever-friendship and a new beginning, leaving Texas behind we headed elsewhere and now we're here. And from what I also remember we drowned that night of breaking free in tequila and I woke up the next morning with my body nestled against yours (first time ever) and bile rising in my throat. I have the worst timings ever when it comes to getting sick, honestly I have, or maybe I'm just bad with liquor? That's what you tell me every morning after and I promise myself to never again, but the trouble with never is, that never ever really works. I heard that line in a song the other day, it stuck and I wish I was the one who made it up seeing as it's pretty damn clever.
A sigh escapes me and you glance over, your trance broken, a few patches of cloth, and a forgotten sweater in between us, if only you could know what a canyon that is to jump. I get a little too poetic while tired and this is all so messed up. Books about Asia on the floor and flowers dying on the table, our surroundings screams depressed or hell, even worse repressed. But still we just can't seem to care these days. I'm still too hooked on streetlights at night, blueberry shakes and that strange look in your eyes. And you, well you, you say you're happy when I am. Is that really true? My knees buckle under such a heavy burden. So buckle!
The tangy green aroma makes my head a little dizzy and it's quite pleasant actually despite being messed up, sad and sick. Maybe this really is growing up, getting high, going down (rollercoaster ride) and I scribble that down, another try to another song for another band that we don't yet have.
It's a lot sweeter than yesterday's red Marlboros and I like the way your shoulders are less tensed. You look so closed to being relaxed that even I could have been fooled if it wasn't for the fingers on your free hand tap-dancing along with the song playing. I study them for a second or two; hard to tell how many when the air has gone hazy and pre-winter changes to summer outside the window. Funny, huh? Time flies and nothing ever happens unless you make it. So why don't we, so why don't I?
You're always in motion, always moving, always watching out, always on the run and some days just knowing that makes me exhausted, makes me hang up the phone and text that I'm busy with other things. I'm not built for war and how so much chaos can fit in such a little body is beyond my imagination. It's like that line from that old punk song we used to play back when we still did covers for fun and peeked in our older brothers' playboy magazines for thrill.
"The boy's a time bomb".
One day I'm sure you'll explode, and now when we're losing track I'll probably take the blow. Stuck on repeat we listen to the same thing over and over again. Ash mixes with the oily brown coffee in your mug and I wonder what the chemical reaction would look like all written up. What would marijuana look like broken down into simple letters?
Some days, like this day I wonder if I'm going insane… and then you remind me of how much worse it can actually get before I even border on walking the edge. I try and hold on to us, but affection being so closely related to sexual attraction makes it hard for me to keep us straight. So I wander all over the road, staggering from left to right, hoping that god all mighty will save us from being road-kill because I'm not sure I'm ready for it. Steel, wheels, blood and gore, that's how tough life gets when you leave the country side behind. Asphalt scrapes knees.
Your head is tilted backwards now resting against the wall, buzz-cut black hair getting a little long around the ears and your neck looks so pale in the dim light that I once again think you're getting ill. You stopped smoking a while ago and drowned the stub in what's left of your coffee; I watched and asked about the dark circles around your eyes. You worry too much was the answer I got in a mumble voice from you and along came a badly hidden yawn. I know you haven't slept in days, I know since I wake every time strike a new chord on the guitar but that doesn't change the fact that I can't make you.
You know, it hurts watching you fall because I'm going down with you.
We change positions and the TV is on mute showing black and white cowboys riding stallions across the prairie, dust and coyotes on their trail. I hate the stereo for being stuck but can't collect the strength to get up and actually make it stop, so I listen to the same lyrics for what is it, the hundredth millionth time? They're still not making sense and I don't get why you put this song on repeat from the very start. You watch men with dirty cheeks without listening when I am trying to scream. We're going to suffocate in tension any second now and my palms are sweaty.
… and then your hand on my arm, the ever so clichéd cold against warm, but then again, smokers do tend to have bad blood circulations I register before you inch a little closer (too close) and ask if everything is alright? No, I nod and wonder how thick you are for even thinking it was from the very start.
It's not okay when we don't sleep or eat and live on mostly cigarettes and too strong joe, in my case second-hand-smoke and diet-coke, but details doesn't matter, what matters is that we're falling apart at the seams, I'm tired of stitching and all I really want is for you to tear of my clothes, trail kisses all the way done my spine and bite my neck so hard it leaves mark. I want it harsh and brutal with tenderness and romance around the edges. I want to kiss your eyelids goodnight. Too much to ask for I know and I shake the hair out of my line of vision, glaring at you for being stupid and then realising that there's only one stupid person here, and that's me for falling so hard and staying so long. But there's nothing good about goodbyes, we never shared them before so why start now? Why kill the ending when we're not even getting started?
So fuck this, fuck the world, fuck everything, fuck our shitty apartment, fuck our neighbour to the right with all the annoying cats, and when we're at it fuck the neighbours right above us too for having sex every god damn night 'cause they're another reason to why we can't ever fall asleep, fuck or car for breaking down and landing us here, fuck my incapability of never keeping a job, and fuck you for smoking too much and drinking too little, fuck us for being tragic and devastated, fuck everything there is to fuck and then throw it away.
With that I hurl my notebook against the stereo, knocking it over and hopefully killing it too. You get startled by sudden movement and there's trace of amusement lighting up your face. Maybe this is what we need, a rebellion against apathy, and try at home-cooked food and a revolution tearing down our blinds. I know we're going way too fast for a U-turn but I'm going to try one either way. Toss the dice and risk a life, or why not die young and save yourself. I'll never be able to write lyrics like they do, the people I admire and who knows if I'll ever stand on a stage singing my heart out, but until I get to know that I'm not going to sit back and wait. I kiss you then straight on chapped lips, the quickest-briefesttouch but damn it feels so good, and then I pull away, asking you for a smoke without even catching my breathe, lets go to hell straight away, heaven's got no room for people like us anyhow. I blush, but it's okay, it fits.
Around us brakes shrieks, ten ton trucks do their best to not collide, and I, well I don't care, because you're smiling so very wide and this, this is stealing your lines right off: I'm happy when you are. So buckle!
Note: Lines borrowed from Brand New, Taking Back Sunday, Rancid and a country artist that I can't really remember the name of right now, but who I like a lot.