“Hey,” I call out with a grin.

He looks up from his phone and grins back, all wonky teeth and crinkled eyes. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t have to say anything. It’s in the way he straightens his back and opens his arms, reaches a hand for me to hold. He pushes unkempt strands of wind-stirred hair from my face and lightly brushes my cheek. A blush tints his freckles.

“Hi,” he mumbles.

His voice has a slight rasp in it the way it does when he’s up before morning coffee. Peaceful, calm. Unguarded. It’s been a bit. His eyes half close. His lips fall into a lazier smile. He leans forward and plants a light kiss on my forehead. Better. I rest my head on his chest and take a deep breath. Cinnamon and chocolates; snow on Christmas morning. Almost Christmas. The autumn chill shakes us. The tip of his nose turns pink. He’s warm. It’s cold. Neither pillows nor comfort food could replace his big jacket and warm hands forever.

We stand in silence all the while, revelling in the sound of the great outdoors. The brittle crunch of autumn leaves under slow passing boots, the ring of shop bells, the rise and fall of his wide shoulders. He catches my eye and I find a smaller version of myself reflected in the dark of his iris.

“Finally.”

-

note

stay at home to keep your loved ones safe!

you’ll see all the people you want to see soon. :)

or, the antidote to life

The Living

“I’m so stiff,” cried the corpse, “I’m dying to dance again.”

And there he rose, hopping off the autopsy table to do a pirouette on the pristine tiles of the room. He twirled and twisted in perfect synchrony to imaginary music, jumping and turning with such conviction that the coroner nearly heard that same music the dead was dancing to.

He moved around the room, avoiding each object with such precision that the amazed onlooker couldn’t help but wonder if this man had ever been there before. The coroner never got any company – only the dead came to visit him. He stared, amazed at the newly exhumed corpse jumping across the room in a perfect brisé.

The dancer became akin to a top spinning out of balance, coiling around in some hidden rage before reaching a crescendo with a sweep of his hand. He moved into what looked like the final position, right leg outstretched, tracing a circle around him with his arms spread far behind, face wistful as he looked up past the ceiling.

Spellbound, the coroner couldn’t but clap at what had played in front of him. He had never been too much of a fan of the performing arts but to deny the dance proper appreciation would be a sin, even if it was to music he can’t hear. The beauty of his form, his harmony, the sincerity of his expression; it was all utter perfection.

The undead dancer gave a low bow to the coroner, a humble thank you coming from his lips. As he did so, the stunned man was reminded of something he’d read a long, long time ago.

“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music,” he whispered, eyes wide.

“Nietzsche,” the other nodded, pale as death but looking more alive than ever. He reached his right hand towards the still man.

“Now, dance with me.”

The coroner, entranced, put a hesitant hand on his. A gasp escaped his lips as their skin touched.

“It’s cold.”

The Dead

If the corpse heard, he didn’t show it as he wrapped his left arm around the living one. He hummed in approval as the other put his hand on his shoulder.

The beat of the other’s heart was intoxicating to his ears; the breath on his lips, the blood running through his veins. It had been so long since he’d last been alive that all he could do was admire the essence of life in his arms. He loved how it brought him on the cliff of ecstasy; dangling off the edge, so close to falling into intense, never ending pleasure. Infatuated he was with life – no – he daresay lusted for it. He lusted to feel life in his hands, in his control, doing as he desired.

He waltzed the living man across the room, carefully avoiding the chairs and tables and gently twirling him around, making the other lose balance slightly just for the dead to catch him in his cold embrace once more. The unlikely pair did this again and again, their delicate stepping and turning becoming something more aggressive; they pushed and they pulled, their turns sharpening.

The corpse shoved the coroner on to the autopsy table he came from, pushing him down on the cold metal.

“You are mine now.”

This shook the living man out of his enchanted stupor, and he writhed and kicked, trying to escape from the cold, rigid grip of death.

“No,” the dancer tutted condescendingly; a reasoning mother to an irascible child. “That is not how you are to behave.”

From the side table he produced a scalpel, blemish-free and all but gleaming in the harsh light. An unsettling thought came about the coroner.

I had just finished sharpening my tools.

yes, it is bad

no, not know

sorry, liar

liar

it is i

i lie

i apolo

gize

i am sorry

that i

have hurt you

yes, you

who has trusted

yes, i

who has scarred

the hands that

help

your bright

red

blood

is now black

on your

white shirt

please

take my

black

shirt

you,

who was one

i, yes

i am one

too

now

two

we are two

you are i

i am you

the dust

sparkles

in your eyes

do not close them

keep open

golden pain

sanguine passion

it lives

it lives

lives

anew

our lives anew

kintsugi

warm&tangly.

june 10 at 12:56 pm

Technically, it is as simple as lying adjacently to each other. The simple juxtaposition of one body to another. Even if it is in close proximity, even if it is something relatively close to intimacy, neither are completely lucid. It is an eyes-closed, dead-to-the-world affair.

But actually being there—

Being on the bed with a boy—

That boy—

It is a mess. Like the colorful lines my toddler of a sister threw across my elementary schoolbooks once upon a time: a squiggly disarray of arms upon arms and legs that run for miles along the almost endless expanse of the soft futon. A mess, a disarrangement, but not, however cluttered it looked, chaos. A chaos of feelings, yes, and a rather confusing event of serendipitous circumstance, but none of it feels regrettable. None of it feels foreboding, none of it feels scary. It is a tangle of limbs and, possibly, hopefully, of relatively similar emotions...

I guess I could call it comfortable.

Comfortable, confusing. Weird but not in a bad way.

His hair is soft and is stretched up and over in the most peculiar curls I have ever seen before ending in soft points across his face. I try to focus on reading the book for him, but the smell of dark roast and cinnamon leads my mind from the biting sarcasm that is Holden Caulfield to the starkly different world beyond my fingertips: the gentler, quieter boy around me. The slender hands that hold my back, the chest supporting the book. The steady breathing on the top of my head.

Taking a pause in between chapters, I glance up at him. His lips are pursed but the rest of his face is relaxed, and though his trademark lopsided grin isn’t visible, his contentment radiates through the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes.

As I stare in amazement, his dark eyelashes flutter and his eyes open.

Briefly, carefully—

“Do you want to take a break?”

The complete opposite of his bright nonchalance, his loud personality. It’s something smaller, something quaint. He looks younger than he is. His voice is deep and there’s a slight crack in it, though it’s not as rasped as my wrecked vocal chords with all the reading. He sounds tired but energized. Just woken up. As if in reading I had given him a dream to sleep on.

He looks vulnerable. Usually so quick to leave his anxieties with an air of carelessness and a friendly smile, I see worry line his face when I do not respond, his dark, dark eyebrows furrowing behind his light bangs.

“Are you okay?”

I let out a two-note chuckle and nod slightly.

“Better than that,” I mumble, almost whispering.

The timid ghost of a smile spreads on his lips and he mutters a tiny heh, an almost-laugh that’s something softer, sweeter than anything I’ve ever heard from him. Something unguarded. Secret.

“Me too.”

i want to sleep

but i can’t sleep a wink

do i need a shrink?

thinking in thoughts and lines

i need to take some time

off

i need to find an escape

a vacation

i need to find a way

to look away

i’m a castaway

stuck in the sea of my own thoughts

i’m on a dilapidated piece of wood

i’m on an iceberg in the middle of a flood

of thoughts

i’ve failed

now i’m drowning

in words

in thoughts

in letters

in colors

all mixing

i’m missing

the point of this madness

the end and beginning

is deliberately ditching me

i’m in the middle of nowhere

stuck

somewhere

out there

in there

my own brain

i can’t control

my feelings are all distraught

i’m caught in a knot

i’ve ought

to figure out that help is naught

i bought

myself into this mess

i’m a mess

in distress

call the ambulance

call the doctor

i need

to be looked after

because left alone

i’m like a dog

a stray

lost and wandering,

wondering

wanting

needing

some sort of help but receiving

none; nothing

because i’m nothing

i’m nothing

i’m nothing

n o t h i n g.

i need to stop thinking.

to love what cannot be understood

to want what cannot be obtained

to need what cannot be kept

oh the

woe

of desire

of joy

of sadness

of solidarity,

singularity

kept pure in

physicality

held safe in

mistaken identity

he he he

not

she she she

perhaps

they

they

they

who is he

she

they

we

(woe is we)

me

not us

not him

not her

but i

but me

we? us?

(may i?)

to love what is not hated

to want what is not needed

to need what is not wanted

you

who are

you

why must

you

always

be there

“you”

always

you

you

you

so

damn

selfish

but that makes both of us

to have

you

to have

me

to make it

us

yearning

endless

pining

needless

needing

wanting

wanting

(perhaps, loving?)

two endings

two endings

always

two endings

yet all i’d

ever seen

was one

one

one

one

not

two

two

two

three

there were us three

one left

to find

his two

then it was

just

us,

too

you kept quiet.

you kept still.

i tried conversation

but you stayed mum

i tried a laugh

but you turned

you looked

away

you turned

away

away

so cold

so cold

when once your hand was warm.

don’t

hug me

you said

you looked

back

and seemed to

glare

heh.

okay,

i replied,

okay.

no contest

wonder

question

query

okay

i'm always

okay

never not fine

always

simply

okay

(it hurts)

okay

sure

fine

okay

yeah

(stop it)

nothing

to see

here

we had a talk, then

am i

making you

uncomfortable?

did i

do

anything

wrong?

scared

confused

desperate?

(why don’t you ever notice me anymore?)

i

didn’t

want

to lose

another

friend

loss

again

pain

again

and

again

and

again

(it fell in waves)

friends or

lovers

don’t need it

don’t care

just hold me

hug me

comfort me

laugh with me

smile at me

the way

you did

before

once

then

(please don’t go)

i like you

as

you

as

me

not

exclusive

not

enclosed

not just me

not just you

but

openly

openly

as a person

as a

a…

is there even a label for this?

must there be a label for this?

can’t i just

like you

as you

without

complication

strings

attached

because labels messed it up

boy

girl

other

(can’t we all just be human?)

all this effort

unfounded

wasted

it will

all be

wasted

once more

so the faster i stop the easier it’ll be.

i’ll think of

us

and then the

universe

will find a way

to make it

stop

(it’ll never happen)

there will never be an

us

the way there has never been an

us

with any of the

you’s

i’ve had

before

(just me.)