social closure
“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. :)
la danse macabre
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.
kintsugi
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
type.
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.”
over&over&over&
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.
a short letter (to us)
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.)