i want my heaven

as much as you

i want to rest

as much as you

i want to fly

let’s make that two

so i can just dream

of the girl who broke the seams

and with broken wings

she flew

and in the heat of the night

with pricks in my toes

the room was vastly cold, because you were not in it

and I tried to picture something

I closed my eyes and painted a face

but I could not convince myself it was real.

who is this

who are we

who are you

who is me

i am one

we are two

you want her

i want you

black and blue

pink and red

you are gone

i am dead

we are known best

our names are shouted from the mountain tops

because we bathe

the water turns grey from our own ignorance

we drink ungrudgingly

feel the grime run down our throats

salt coats our stomach in layers as thin as paper

heavens!

we call

we look up at the sun and rain

and say we know where he is

we call ourselves the one

we call our place the heavens

because it is what we know

we are known best

by ourselves

only us

us

our names are shouted from the mountain tops

and we bathe

and the water turns to gold

because that is what we have imagined it

and it may be true

but we don’t really look up at the sun and rain

or know

because the universe is but the insides of a deer

and we have yet to see its skin.

The girl had not looked for attention. She hadn’t looked for pity or sorrowful glances. Most of all, she’d never really wished for things to be different.

Every day she got up before the sun. She skipped along the concrete sidewalk as the day’s first beams of light appeared behind the treetops. She often went barefoot. She liked the feeling of pebbles against her toes. She would make herself oatmeal and tea, with just a bit of honey. She’d never grown out of it since she was a child and her mother made her sweet, hot drinks when she caught a cold.

She would scrub the dishes and wash the clothes and hang them out to dry. Feed the cat, water the plants, make her bed. And when it was all done she would take out a plaster tray of watercolors. She tiptoed up to the big closet, the one she could sleep in, if she really wanted, because there was so much room. She would pull out a six foot tall roll of canvas. She would throw it across the living room floor until it hit the wall on the other side. And then she would paint. Lines, streaks, splatters. All different colors of all different textures. Faces, words, ideas, anything and everything she could possibly think of.

And she thought of many things.

Her ideas reached the ceiling and even when that was a boundary, she could still close her eyes and imagine them going out into space. The galaxy, she knew, was an enormous thing. It was filled with ideas, and concepts, and lightness and darkness. It was filled with many things she did not yet know about.

But that did not bother her. She had things to do, and things to think about, and with six feet of canvas and a little house on a hill and paints and pens, her world was complete. Her own galaxy was right there at her fingertips.

She did not speak much to others, or make friends. She lived alone and so people thought perhaps she was lonely. But their understanding was not close to what she felt inside. She was not unhappy, or ungrateful. Being optimistic came naturally and there was no need to be hopeful.

She stood back and looked over what she created. She picked up her cat, gently so as not to frighten it. She held its paws with her hand and looked out over her very own living room.

“It’s a mess,” she giggled. And with that she smiled. “Perfect.”

Because she had the one magnificent thing that so many other people had lost:

She had herself.

shy

SHī/

adjective

1. Showing nervousness or timidity in the company of other people.

-

today, something happened.

i stood at the bus station, letting people chatter around me but didn't speak a word. and then there he was, standing next to me like it was the most casual thing in the world. and we just waited there.

he looked over, eyes meeting mine.

“hi,” he said.

“hi,” I said back.

“you’re troye, right?”

my eyes widened a little. “yeah. and um, you’re connor.” i tried to sound apprehensive, as if i hadn't really remembered, even though i was amazed he remembered mine.

“yeah. do you live around here?” he asked, tilting his head as if he really was curious.

“yeah, down the street from the coffee shop.”

“i love that place,” he said softly, looking out in front of us at the streets.

“me too.”

we stayed in silence, and it was sort of comfortable. but then the bus came and i said i had to catch the next one, so he turned away.

but he looked back once.

“see you around, troye.”

and my name had never sounded more beautiful.

tem·po·rar·y

ˈtempəˌrerē/

adjective

1. lasting for only a limited period of time; not permanent.

-

hot chocolate.

smooth. creamy. rich. sweet. blissful and filled with childhood dreams. wishes of cotton candy sunsets and lollipop forests. of snow filled days where you can wander through a powdered sugar wonderland and feel the sun’s rays on your bare skin like cornbread baking softly in an oven.

just one sip and i remember those dreams. i remember those fantasies, when nothing else seemed to matter. nothing at all.

it was strawberry jam instead of acid blood.

it was swimming pools instead of salty tears.

it was oceans of blue instead of endless stormy seas.

it was nursery rhymes instead of calls into the night.

lonely calls. calls no one would hear. no one would answer. it was a pointless battle. and it wasn't even a battle at all.

because i had stopped trying quite a while ago.

i just gave up.

i try to picture forests. i try to picture those deep green eyes but it's been too long since i’ve seen them. they are faded, not much more than a memory.

and i know from experience that memories don’t last forever. they fade. they already happened, and they will never happen again. they are only pieces and parts of the past, the past that is gone. and what does it matter if the memories are there or not? it won’t change anything. i’m still sad. i’m still pathetic. i’m still a failure and i always will be.

i go out. the coffee shop sounds nice. it’s filled with different people with different minds and thoughts, all together in one room. we all share one similarity; coffee.

i think it’s cool. it's amazing how coffee can bring people together like this and how anyone can enjoy it. there are a million different ways to drink it, a million ways to serve it and a million places coffee can call home.

so for now, i sit alone by a wooden table, stained with coffee rings and scratches from all the customers who’ve come here before. it’s history. it's…. memories.

but those don’t matter to me.

right?

-

i swirl the foam around my teaspoon, waiting for each grain of sugar to dissolve and each ripple of cream to soothingly melt inside the cup. i love the sound of the spoon tapping against ceramic, the delicate sip and swallow that only i can hear, the hot and pungent flavor flowing through my body and warming it.

it's relaxing. it’s addicting. it’s my drug, in some way.

and then the little brass bell above the doorframe chimes, and the door closes, and i look up. and there he is, notebook in hand and no books. not yet.

it's only 8 in the morning. connor must come to get coffee, then take it to the library, and who knows where the bus leads.

i feel intrigued. for whatever reason, i want to learn more. i want to know where that bus takes him.

he takes his coffee cup, smiling at the woman behind the counter. and then they lock with mine. his eyes.

and suddenly, i remember.

i remember why they calmed me. i remember what it felt like to have them on me, eating up me personal space in some beautiful way even though he wasn’t close to me at all.

but it felt like he had gotten inside my head.

it was that weird connection. where did it come from? i don’t know. and i might never know. but it comforts me, and just in that moment, i let it. and i don’t ask questions.

i just sipped my coffee.

and he sipped his.

i was

ok.

but like always, it was temporary.

des·per·ate

ˈdesp(ə)rət/

adjective

1. having a hopeless sense that a situation is so bad as to be impossible to deal with.

-

i can’t stop thinking. thinking. worrying. things constantly on my mind.

it seems to be what i do best.

i just can’t seem to get connor off my mind. something about him is different than everyone else. something about his smile is more comforting than the grins from pretty girls in bars. something about his green eyes is more mesmerizing than any ice blue eyes from movie stars. something about his notebook told me there was so much more to discover about him. he was a whole book, a novel, with a million pages that hadn’t been opened.

maybe i am sort of like that.

but i knew one thing was for sure; i wanted to be the one to discover them. i only wish i wasn’t so shy. i wish i wasn’t so held back from the world. i wish i wasn’t so afraid.

but i can’t change anything. nothing has changed. nothing ever will.

i go to the kitchen. my kitchen in small but comfortable, with only a small table and two chairs. i don’t know why there’s two. maybe it’s the hope that someday someone will come and sit in it. maybe chat over breakfast. i’d make morning coffee and we’d watch the potted plants on the window sill.

i know that will never happen.

i make myself a cup of coffee. the mug warms my hands and i close my eyes, breathing in the warm scent. i still think about connor.

i could go back. back to the library, and wait there. maybe he would still be there, waiting by the bus stop. maybe he would be reading, or writing. who knows.

i sip my coffee until the cup is empty. the bottom of the mug is stained in brown. i put it in the sink and head to the door. i lace up my shoes and grab my jumper.

it’s only about 10 minutes before i reach the library. i glance at my phone. 9am. the same time as yesterday, i think.

i glance around, up the cement stairs and past the bus stop. i head up. the library is rich, filled with a million words and books filling every shelf, spilling like an overflowing sink. it has the sweet smell of yellowing paper and glossy finish. the floor creaks with my steps.

i glance down the aisles.

fiction.

fantasy.

romance.

i look the other direction, and i see someone. just a flash, before the front door closes behind them. but that’s all i need to see to know who it is.

i run after him, but just slow enough so i don’t look crazy.

back outside, i see him. he’s standing by the bus stop. same hair. same eyes. same green jacket. same coffee. same notebook.

the bus comes. he slips off into the crowd. the doors close. the bus leaves.

i’m alone again. although, i should’ve expected nothing less.

i’m just desperate.

gone

ɡôn/

adjective

1. no longer present; departed.

-

the scars hurt my arms as i walk down the sidewalk. the skin is throbbing, yet mildly pleasant in a way. still, it doesn’t stop me from wincing when the fabric of my jumper brushes against them.

i look down, avoiding the eyes of strangers. the air is crisp and i feel less safe than at home. but i need the air.

the air fills my lungs like an empty swimming pool, falling in the cracks.

i look up.

i see him. he’s walking out of the library, notebook in hand and a canvas bag over his shoulder. i guess it’s filled with books.

i stand still, gulping when he stops next to me. he doesn’t look at me though. he just stands under the bus stop sign, fiddling with his fingers.

i admire his grace. the way his fingers slip amongst each other and slide over the soft leather texture of his notebook. it reminds me of mine. what is it filled with, i wonder.

songs, perhaps. schedules, maybe. or stories.

i will probably never know.

but he looks over. he gives such a faint smile, dusted on his lips like watercolor. i swoon in the beauty of his eyes.

“hello,” his voice is as soft as feather pillows and deep as silver oceans. his eyes graze over mine so carefully.

he had spoken to me. i should probably say something in return.

“hey,” i say.

i sound so casual and calm as if this is nothing out of the ordinary. little does he know, this one hello is throwing my day off balance.

i don’t know if i should say something more, or just leave everything behind, or if i should let him continue whatever this conversation is.

“waiting for the bus?”

i nod my head slowly. i’m not waiting, but that doesn’t matter. i glance down at his notebook, and he notices my questioning gaze.

“oh, this?” i nod again, waiting for him to continue. his lips are thin and they crack into a smile a second time. “i’m writing a book. just a small one, nothing too exciting.”

i could say that i write too. i write the perfect combination of poetry and music. i could say that i thought he was fascinating, though i don’t know why. i could say so many things.

the bus came too quickly. the doors slide open and i’m sure i’ll lose him in the crowd. but before he vanishes, he turns around once.

“i’m connor.”

and right before he’s gone, i say two words. two words i haven’t said since i can remember. two words i’m almost too scared to utter.

“i’m troye.”

and he’s gone.

i don’t know if i’ll see him again. ever. but i hope so.

because everyone i used to know is gone.

i don’t want it to happen again.

scared

skerd/

adjective

1. fearful; frightened.

-

i don’t know what to do.

i’m trapped in my own life. my own skin. my own mind. and there’s no escape.

well, actually, there’s one. but sometimes i find that even i myself am too scared to do it. but then i remember that no one will care.

sometimes i feel numb like this. all the bones in my body don’t seem to matter and the world around me just feels like some transparent nightmare.

i feel detached.

my feet tap across the floor of my apartment. i find myself in the bathroom, bare feet on the cold tile floor and stand in front of the mirror. i want to rip my fingernails through the ugly, pale skin and do anything, anything, so i’d never have to see my skinny little body again.

i find myself biting my cracked lips until my tongue tastes like metal. the circles under my eyes are dark and saggy. my hair is messy and already getting too long. i’m as pale as a snowstorm and as torn up inside as a hurricane, and yet nothing can stop it. i can’t hide in the cellar forever.

my sharp breathing pauses when a certain object comes to my mind. i break my eyes away from the mirror and open a few drawers. my fingers find the sharp piece of medal instantly. i pull in out, slowly, as if it is sacred. in a way, it is.

the metal is cold as it touches my wrist. i can feel its sharp edges, its slick corners. my skin stings, burns. a perfect line, right through, to show that it’s not perfect at all.

funny, isn’t it.

hot. my blood is hot as it breaks through the surface, dripping slowly down my arm. it’s warm and comforting, even though it hurts. i take in a long breath, smiling a little to myself.

in some ways, i feel less scared.

i know it will come back. it always does. but i have to accept that my life is screwed up, that i’m a complete mess, and that no one will be able to help me.

because, after all, it’s too late for anything to change.