She hates the rain like it was entwined, made out of your spit; I'm sure the flavor is same enough that it leaves her faded and sick, like it always has.
And things? They never change; I know well enough, and it's already too much. I wish I could just avert my eyes, because you're already a master at it, but I can't, I won't, even if she smiles and kisses only mid-finish, and I know she doesn't love me in any more than the unfairest of ways.
I pretend, because what else is there left to do? We're all just lonely people who need too much, and I can't even begin to fathom life without her when it's already just a room of two. It's heart-wrenching, don't you think? When our hands touch, and she is so close, in my grasp, but I cannot reach nearly far enough? She laughs, light-years away from me, but holds on so tight, that I can't help but believe. Her hands are so lovely, sculpted by the most worthy of men; they make my heart beat just under my undesired skin. It's warm, heats me up like a summer change from this winter hell you left us in.
But you should come back, because she would forgive you easily enough, and I'll revert to third-string, when this deluded fantasy doesn't stand a chance. I have been playing this game for too long not to know it's trick.
Us? There's no such thing, a discontinuation of tongue and language. It's only her and me, and the cruelty of separate individuality; I'm repeatedly a fool when hoping for unity. I may pray to God, because last time I did you left, but the smile became worthless long before I could use it. It was a second-tier happiness before reality invaded, a curse masquerading as a gift, and I should of known its purpose.
So I memorized her face well in the break-down; I learned it was not anything I wanted, deep down and a dive from the conscience. She was not what I imagined, trapped inside a bed and crying, bound and so tired from reaching when I only wanted to settle, when I pleaded so much my knees buckled. I guess it was too much to ask for; I guess I was too caught up in being a dreamer, trailing in the presence of my mighty older brother. We don't have anyone else; the streets are void in this little city, so I thought if I stayed, maybe she'd finally realize me? I know now; I've been a boy for much longer than I've been a man, and it shows. I may mimic stern faces and emphasize long words I stole from the critics, but it never stops me from the awkward long-bending ego of a school boy.
Everything is about distance.
This is the story of the girl, the boy, and his shadow. I was the lump in her throat, while you were the sky of her world. She loved blue decades before she change to brown; she bathed in your love before the world turned and it burned her up. You'd flinch just from looking; perhaps that's why you left? You'd start off with U— and be lucky ever to reach B— again, the regrettable truth, since I guess we are all a little shallow before we're perfect, if ever at all.
But I don't blame you, I don't judge you. It wouldn't make you any worse within her eyes, and just leave them more bloated, when she already screwed them shut from all the crying. And the non-presence of lights? Oh, it makes me cry when her hands melt into mine and ours faces join, in spare seconds of this life-time, when my name becomes someone's else, who else but you? She begs me to call you back like finding potential in dead-weight words, but I can't bring myself to do it when spite and jealously are more integrated into me than I've ever known. Your smile was proof enough, and she loathes me to the tune of passive-aggressive when she side-steps the truth.
If I don't try, will she not hurt anymore? Can she just keep that hope bottled up inside forever?
And I can't say I'm surprised, though it eats my heart out when she coos of the nose, the lips, the skin so pristine it makes her envious. Our reflected image is my death-bed and saving grace; I've been breaking mirrors, and bleeding inside knuckles for far longer than I can count on ten fingers. Even our blood is the same; there isn't any way for me to escape. This is a home that spirals into a labyrinth, so when I pull back, she'll apologizes on the mistake, with a slanted face and darkness her only friend, and I won't know a thing to say. I can't even flinch when my hands are pressing so hard down on her throat, it aches.
She tells me to stop it, there's so much pain.
And I don't want to know that I can keep her from breathing if I only press a few second longer. This is, after-all, about distance and how I can't reach at all; laughable that my fingers unlock and my eyes widen from the repulsive sincerity of hissing glass-snakes comprised in I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry, so won't you finally love me?
This lie, it won't stop before I find a place six feet beneath my knees. Can't stop, because this is nothing if it's not mandatory; the lights, the trigger, everything that hurts? I can't find anything that helps at all. It's no doctor, and thus no cure. Brother, won't you come back to her? She needs, and it's not hard to know who is willing to give up more.
And though she lulls like a master of shallow promises, I can't help snarl at the shrug of her shoulders; I can't stop trembling at the break of her spine and the inevitable. I've been slowly collapsing, she always has been straying; we all have our end-points. We're walking to the edge of the world before I even started the engine.
This is the sight of dusty ends with no beginnings at all; it helps me forget and pretend I never remembered. I'm not strong enough, I never have been, and it scratches a smile onto her lips like a lovely affliction when she feels the fall. Her face became nothing but ethereal yearning, a death-wish resounding with the after-match of lighting. The rain supported like a persistent lover, but she didn't need to be sick anymore. No longer bed-ridden, I instead honored her with a coffin.
Paradise is surely too worthy to be bogged down by past memories.