If you were to “attack me,” as they would call it, right now, in this exact moment, I would not paw your chest and let the air vacuum the space between our sticky bodies. I would not bite your lip or open my eyes. I would not lay unresponsive, starfish to predator, spaghetti to fork. I would kiss you back, but I must tell you, it would be the most bitter kiss of my life. You see, I want to savor the time that separates the exact distance it takes for the tips of my eyelashes to reach yours, I want to taste the seconds between your breaths, I want to suffer those long hours in the grip of apprehension when you taste your lips and I lean into them. I do not want your simplicity or your pitying stare. I am not here to take from you. I am here to make something entirely new. The ingredients? My nails on the crescendo of your collarbone, the sun on your teeth in my eyes, long midnight explorations of the dunes and troughs of your hair, and the tears that I mix into the creamy hazelnut of your cheek when you give me that old, old smile, that smile I hope to keep in my hands like a pearl or a secret until we crystalize, new butterflies on the background of black space and hope-like stars that only you can see.
Chemical Love
Every bump on my skin is goosed
My eyes are dilated and their ceramic gloss is two faced, melancholy tears and wedding joy both
Intestines I had forgotten now beat with my heart, shrink wrapped against its Juliet desire
The time passing vexes and seizes me, the quiet thump of butterfly wings
I can feel tingles, lingering on fingers—fingers? Or under my skin, my nerves shot up with opiate electricity
Mechanic engines roar instead of hiss, letting slip that they are more than patched up airbags
Bundles of nerves conglobate into a single image, the whole potential of the brain looking at lips
I am stuck on that awkward divide between happiness and tomorrow
and it’s wonderful
"And never have I felt so deeply at one and the same time so detached from myself and so present in the world" |
| ~ Albert Camus (via supitsalex) |
"I don’t smoke, although it looks fantastic in films. But I light matches on those thinking blank nights when I crawl my route out onto the roof of the garage and the sky while my parents sleep innocent and the lonely cars move sparse on the faraway streets, when the pillow won’t stay cool and the blankets bother my body no matter how I move or lie still. I just sit with my legs dangling and light matches and watch them flicker away." |
| ~ Daniel Handler, Why We Broke Up (via limbless) |
We almost died that night. She ate the
dying fetus of a donut, as I huffed the
whipped cream of my espresso. The hurling
ball of fire in the air was not the sun. Indeed
it was the first coming of Nix, and none other
than his messenger Thanatos, death. A body fell
from the roof above us into the fray of a blue mustang.
The screech of metal on glass was deafening to our mellow
milieu. We were thrown out of a world, much like children
witnessing their parents masturbating each other or the first time
you feel the cold rape of a dirty syringe entering your blood vessel.
My glasses fogged up with apprehension, the glasses themselves felt the
fear that emanated from the words that escaped my breath. She cried out
one word, a word of which the time of conversation would of allowed as
appropriate but now fell isolated and prejudiced by other words and breaths alike,
‘Funny.’
