“Be mine” she said and watched as your eyes turned to blooming daisies with honest dew in the corners. You felt your blood calmly rushing and your cheeks turn into an honest pastel pink. As days grew and nights died, the honest raven kept slamming itself against your once dreamt-of bay window. Eyes turned prey to all that needn’t have been seen and you fell prey to the rest.
10 breaths to calm you down?
7 more, I can.
Dry throat, as lifeless as a 3 year-old daisy.
A lump in the throat the never been a good sign, has it? Your nails turn into an honest red as you force them onto that turquoise pillow you bought for the rusting patio furniture. Eyes turn an ugly blotched red.
The number of times you forgave.
The number of times she expected you to.
Close your eyes, like the days are dying and the nights are honest ghosts now.
A warm blanket. A little too big for your puny figure. With faded green and yellow Lillies sprawling with a dishonest cheer about it.
The first time you saw her, swinging while standing up like the brave little girl she was, in a park covered in weed, rust and laughter.
The number of times you’ve tried to stop tearing up but honestly failing.
The number of times you’ve failed when you tried to swallow away salty tears.
The time you’ll try again.
Because it comes. Tomorrow always does.
And my heart was in free fall. Ignored the wind slashing at it. Listened to just gravity. Nostalgia puncturing all the veins, blood as crimson as infected insecurities spilled over vanilla clouds.
But the displaced heart still wanted to know if it would fall on a cushion of grass, as comforting as optimism or on the fear-stained end of a rose.
And it fell.
Loving the uncertainty. Relishing the stupidity.
Remembering that the chill that runs down your spine when your old demons whisper memories in your ear, was left behind at the cliff. The captors from your war between is and could be, sent down stranded silken ropes. But the scent of wrought ebony tugged gently at it too. It was addicted to the taste of oblivion.
And so it fell. Fell, feeling just itself beating.
Unrelenting. Unarmoured. Wounded. Stubborn.
There’s a war that wakes up with me. The coffee stains on my diary pages are snickering at this peace I’m trying to fake. What is this numbness I’m trying to achieve? Because each time my mind recalls your name, there’s a battle I’m trying to erase.
The shiver’s back again, too strong to be suppressed.The mug is going to fall soon and the ink is going to be dissolved in it like the rush meant nothing.
What you see is a skillfully painted mask. What you see are practised colours. I want you to be submerged in your soul, so when you finally see raw scars and bleeding insecurities, you’ll forget the mask. You’ll embrace the blotched heartbreaks.
You’ll fight this coffee-stained oblivion.
You’ll fight this imposed rebellion.
You’ll join me in this caffeinated chaos.
We are restless.
We find our calm in battles we fight with ourselves. We hunt and kill to make tear-stained armour from the toughest ones.
We kiss our oblivion while we burn our insides.
And somewhere in the spaces between this war you caused, our souls dissolved into our sunburnt swords.
Forgive us for not dancing to your overused hypnotic melodies.
We are the untamed. And it’s too late for us to join your circus.
The sky keeps calling your name but I shake it off convincing myself it’s the sound of the wind. Or the clouds rumbling. Because the time you said your kiss was plain white and meant nothing, I hallucinated a rainbow in it.
Or the time I asked you to look at the fading hue of the sunset, you noticed just the sinking.
When we walked on the beach together barefoot, I asked you to close your eyes and feel the humid breeze on your skin, you told me the sand pricked your feet.
You’d see a cloud and I’d see a blazing dragon in it.
I guess you were always scared of moments. Moments are lethal, they make you want to believe in permanence. Moments can get you frozen in a place where there’s no wind to push your sail forward.
You’d be thousands of miles away from the shore. Thousands of miles away from home.
And I would notice the golden reflection of the sun on the still waters.
I hear the cling of shackles as I try to shake them off.
The sound of freedom.
The sound of creativity.
The sight of a vibrantly painted mural.
The sound of laughter.
The silence of us taking a walk in the beach at 1 am.
The instability I’m fearing as you hug me, trying to mend all your dark pieces through the warmth.
The wind hitting your face with a jolt as you put your head outside the window of your car.
The dream of holding a pen and writing all of this.
Or the lack of it. All of it.