Whisper in the shadows
where souls lie under cold stone
and we sit on stone tables,
feet dangling just past twilight.
We are fragile as glass,
craving the motion
that would break us together,
break us together,
stick in our hearts
like sap on the hood of his car.
This is the way my world ends --
Not with a bang, but a silent whimper
along your jaw.
Hold your dream in my hand
then give it back to you --
I'm just around
to keep you hopeful.
(Please tell me someone got the T. S. Eliot reference...)
The red light on the dash blared out their carelessness, a silent reprimand to put on their seat belts, and do as they'd been taught.
She watched his dice bob back and forth, bouncing off each other, and thought briefly of where her body would go if they got in a wreck. But she didn't feel like worrying tonight. Nothing could happen to her while she was curled across the front seat with her head on his leg. Nothing could hit them because there was nothing else, nothing else existed. There was only the gear shift in front of her, the emergency break digging into her ribs, and his hand on her side.
She heard him mumbling something, and instinctively knew he was singing. He was always singing. "What are you singing?" Her voice sounded like she'd been chain smoking for about 26 years, so she had to repeat herself: "What are you mumbling to yourself?"
"I'm singing Neil Young."
Even her chuckle was throaty. "Well, sing it louder."
"Once I thought I saw you in a crowded hazy bar, dancing on the light from star to star..." She smiled contentedly, knowing she probably wouldn't enjoy the song unless he was singing it to her, and somehow feeling that he was singing to her, not just for her. It felt like a future song, and made her think of goodbyes and "meeting again someday". It didn't make her sad though, so she didn't mind.
"Sing the one that's like, I was just a dream, but you were just a dreamer, or something like that." His hand came up for a moment to stroke her hair, the returned to rest on her side.
"I am just a dreamer, but you are just a dream, you could have been anyone to me." She loved those lines. They didn't really apply, she just always thought of him as being her dream. Not like a fairytale, because they were too cynical for that, but a cigarette smoke, cemetery kisses, and leavin' tears kind of dream. "That's 'Like a Hurricane'..."
"Oh." He cut the music on and skipped around the cd until he found the song he'd mentioned, then he sang along with Neil Young.
"You are like a hurricane, there's calm in your eye..."
He gets hungry
after they make love.
She gets tired
and wants nothing more
than to look at him.
"Your shoulders are so fragile."
Her hands slide
down his narrow waist
and she thinks of how small he is,
how breakable he seems
when he's naked in her arms.
She can't let him go.
"You've almost made me into the kind of girl
who cries after sex."
Smother herself in his hair,
close her eyes against his neck.
She can't hold him close enough
because she's so scared
of being left behind.
"I'm gonna hold you forever."
It's the most beautiful lie
he's told thus far.
Prompt: Watching him in the kitchen during dinner rush
Her hands shook as she carefully measured out 5 cups of coffee grounds. She placed her hands on the counter, applying enough pressure to turn her fingertips white. She took a deep breath, then let it out in a sigh, putting the filter into the coffee maker and pouring the water in.
She stood completely still, biting her lip, thinking of the Journey cover the band was playing, thinking of how he always said her coffee was too weak, no matter how much she put in. Anything but that this was the last coffee house he would be playing at.
She stood there waiting for the pot to finish and wondered briefly why no one had been in with orders yet. Well, it made her life easier. She wouldn't want his job in a real kitchen for anything. She remembered one night at work...
She was on break, standing just outside the doorway with a full view of the kitchen. She was waiting for him to get out, since he had the cigarettes and the conversation with him. He usually took his break the same time as her, but tonight had been busy and he was rushing around in the kitchen. That was all right. She could watch him, something it seemed she didn't get to do half as often as she'd like. He had a compulsion to action, and that left little time for her to simply observe.
She smiled as he narrowly avoided adding another burn scar to the large collection forming on his hands and wrists. That boy was such a danger to himself around hot or sharp objects, it was amazing he hadn't lost a few fingers or burnt his hand off yet. It seemed like every day she found a new scar on his hand or his arm. If she didn't know better, she'd worry.
She wondered what he was thinking right now. He had told her once that he loved cooking because of all the thinking you did. He looked so focused, but then he would break out and laugh, or make a joke with one of the other cooks. She loved it when he laughed. She could always tell what he was thinking, whether he was skeptical, surprised, or honestly amused. She knew she was probably the only person in the world who could. And that had made her smile.
He’s such a beautiful mess, she thought. Just a little boy playing with new toys. He’d said that he just wanted to feel, but that he was afraid of love. She’d laughed and asked how you could want to feel, but be afraid of love. He replied that he was afraid the other person wouldn’t love him back. So vulnerable, she thought, such a little boy inside his badass body.
That thought melted her and she had to put down the coffee pot and hurriedly scrub away a renegade tear. She poured the coffee into the white pitcher and suddenly noticed that there was no music playing.
Almost the moment she realized that, the door opened and he stepped in, empty Styrofoam cup in hand and a smile on his face. She smiled halfway, and turned around to empty out the filter. He came over and stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders as he bent down to give her a covert kiss on the neck.
She smiled, and turned around to face him. “Behave; we’re in church.”
He put his hand on the back of her head and pulled her to him for a wild, quick kiss. “We’re evil anyway.”
She pulled away, smiling and rolling her eyes at him as she turned back around to refill the machine.
He put his arms around her waist and rocked her back and forth, swaying to some unknown song with his hands clasped around her stomach. She barely heard him singing their song into her ear: “Cotton candy in a rotten mouth, you know you're so fucked up, you know I couldn't help but have it for you...” He stopped swaying, and there was a moment of comfortable silence where she knew he was thinking that the world had stopped. He bent his head down to whisper onto her neck, “I’m gonna miss your shitty coffee.”
Prompt: smoky kisses, hiding from the heat, and cedar trees.
"The place where I held you and we kissed in the rain..."
She smiled sarcastically, flicking the ash off her cigarette and refusing to look at him. "I thought you said it wasn't all that?"
"Yeah, well, I said a lot of things." She snorted and took a drag on the cigarette. He looked over at her. "You're still not inhaling. I told you, these are expensive, and if you're going to smoke with me, you better fucking inhale."
She finally looked at him. "Then you'd better teach me."
He pushed off the side of the car, and gestured for her to hand him the cigarette. "Fine. Just wrap your lips completely around it." He stuck the cigarette in her mouth and held it there. "Now, inhale, just like you're trying to breathe, but through the cigarette." She inhaled deeply, and felt the smoke fill her lungs. When she started coughing, he removed the cigarette from her mouth with a triumphant smile. "You did it. Are you alright?"
She was bent over, coughing and smiling. She straightened, grinned at him, and took the cigarette back. "I'm fine."
He nodded, and finished his cigarette in one drag. Flicking it into the alligator-infe
She took her time, still trying to inhale the smoke without choking on it. When she was through, she nonchalantly followed his example. He said nothing, just walked across the cracked and deserted street to the woods lining it.
A short distance from the road, he stopped in a clearing and looked straight up at the almost perfect circle of blue sky above. She followed his example, wondering if it meant as much to him as the parking spot next to the lake, wondering if he loved it for the permeating scent of cedar, or the fresh view of the sky.
"It's nice. Not as hot as by the lake." Not that it was much better; she could still see the sweat trickling down the sides of his face. She smiled and sang under her breath: "And I watched as the sweat ran down your face, reached up, and I caught it at your chin, licked my fingertips..."
He looked back at her and smiled absentmindedly
"Not at all," she murmured, softened by this sudden confession. She hadn't been expecting any shows of emotion from him today.
"Is it bad that I want to kiss you?"
"No..." She stepped closer to him and cupped his jaw with her fingers. His mouth tasted like cigarettes and coffee, his other lovers, and it made her smile against his lips. She decided that whoever said kissing a smoker was like licking an ashtray had obviously never licked an ashtray before.
"Leaving her should be a sin. In which case I intend to be a saint."
- Jonathan "Edward" Best
"I think it's... well, we're both wicked self-destructi
-Rachel Mace
18th Floor Balcony, by Blue October
I close my eyes and I smile
Knowing that everything is alright
To the core
So close that door
Is this happening?
My breath is on your hair
I'm unaware
That you opened the blinds and let the city in
God, you held my hand
And we stand
Just taking in everything.
And I knew it from the start
So my arms are open wide
Your head is on my stomach
And we're trying so hard not to fall asleep
Here we are
On this 18th floor balcony.
We're both flying away.
So we talked about mom's and dad's
About family pasts
Just getting to know where we came from
Our hearts were on display
For all to see
I can't believe this is happening to me
And I raised my hand as if to show you that I was yours
That I was so yours for the taking
I'm so yours for the taking
That's when I felt the wind pick up
I grabbed the rail while choking up
These words to say and then you kissed me...
I knew it from the start
So my arms are open wide
Your head is on my stomach
And we're trying so hard not to fall asleep
Here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...
We're both flying away.
And I'll try to sleep
To keep you in my dreams
'til I can bring you home with me
I'll try to sleep
And when I do I'll keep you in my... dreams
I knew it from the start
So my arms are open wide
Your head is on my stomach
And we're trying so hard not to fall asleep
So here we are
On this 18th floor balcony, yeah
I knew it from the start
My arms are open wide
Your head is on my stomach
No, we're not going to sleep
Here we are
On this 18th floor balcony... we're both..
Flying away
Give me
cigarettes or razorblades,
because baby, all I want
is to self-destruct.
You're an addiction
I'll eventually kick,
hide you away in a little black box
next to everything that ever made me smile.
You gave it all back,
Like it meant NOTHING
to you.
But for now,
I keep a regular stock
of things to hurt me:
clove cigarettes for when I want it artistic,
old journals for when I want it nostalgic,
alcohol for when I want it dull,
razors for when I want it sharp,
and you for when I want it to almost kill me.
Just almost, though.
I was like, "Ugh, you're acting just like the crazy ex girlfriend!"
And then I thought, "Wait a tic, I am the crazy ex girlfriend. Might as well go for the gold."
What I do when I should be sleeping
If I were a musician,
I would write myself a lullabye
and try to get to sleep.
But that's your dream.
I'm just a poet
who pulls all-nighters,
while my eyes go soft focus
and I think how cool this picture would look
with a cigarette
and you in the background
sleeping on a couch.
Hell, the picture would look good
with just you and the couch.
I guess that's how I imagined it would be --
us together, slender bohemians
living off music and words
in a one-room apartment.
Well.
Everyone's allowed their fairytale, right?
I should probably stop this,
but fuck it --
I'll write you as many poems as I want.
Another Notch in the Wall of Poems to You
You'll be gone in a few months.
Off to the middle of everything,
alone,
leaving me behind.
I hope you still have
my shampoo;
hope you think of something happy
when you reach for it
through the steam.
I could fill this poem
you'll never read
with the typical questions
that I already know
most
of the answers to.
Or
I could end it like this,
knowing that you probably
wouldn't understand
all the unwritten lines.
As I move forward in time,
everything goes dark:
all light sinks with the sun
into the sea
and is engulfed in thick, black blue.
It occurs to me
that I would never know we were falling
if not for the feeling in my stomach.
I receive no such alert
and arrive safely in a light-polluted
Stockholm airport.
I walk down a long corridor
toward the light,
which does, in fact,
lead to some form of purgatory:
I am surrounded by Svenska--
the air language--
and nervously wondering
if he forgot my promise.
Then I see the golden-blonde head
of the wolf-king,
purveyor of Swe-punk and Adrian Alexis,
and frequenter of underground gothic cafes.
I hear his loud, excited "Hej!"
(One of the few words in my limited vocabulary),
and run giggling to tackle him.
Lungt, I think with a smile.
Lungt, big brother.
(conversation before boarding a bus in our pajamas...)
"What is this madness?!" The looks on the college students' faces were affronted. Bewildered. Confused. They were lost in a proverbial sea of pajama-clad high school students and didn't quite know what to think.
We sat proudly in our flannels and dessert-coated cotton shirts, laughing triumphantly and brandishing our pens at a highly skeptical world. "This! Is! SPARTA!!"
I never would've known
that Dante's Inferno
could lead to swapping Chaucer tales
on a too-small bench
in a V-shaped room,
where the only warm skin
is the skin that you're touching.
I never would've known
that German could ever be as sexy
as it was
when you said you loved my feet,
or translated Himmel into my ear
without using the book.
I never would've known
that I could have such
random, intellectual conversations
with someone who
a.) I met roughly 6 days ago, and
b.) Is putting together a puzzle
while conversing on human psychology
and the brilliance of classical composers.
I never would've known
that I could
be myself so shamelessly
laugh so endlessly
snuggle so comfortably
and communicate so intelligently
if you hadn't had
such an attractive voice.