I rested my cheek at the top of your voluminous hair, and the air filled the narrow crevices of my nose with a pungency of vulnerability; the odor of bones breaking and limbs disentangling and ribcage being cut into two. the colour of the sky was a sad, cerulean blue, and its as if he was sharing some of his extensive melancholia to us. the road signs had vandalised profanity in it, some had crawling vines hugging its metal rods. it was exactly three fifty eight in the afternoon, and the humidity seemed to thicken and crystallize into a duvet that hugged the frail lengths of our bodies. not to be a bit fascist, but i want you to remember the details of that day, no matter how small you deemed them to be. i had engraved all these little details in my mind like an indelible tattoo against my parchment skin, and i hope you do it to yours too
for it was that day, that am and pm betwixt the sun’s falling and moon’s waking, when flowerless tombs settled within me; the day i had tearful teacups for heavy eyes and crisscrossing metal beams for a tired and tinder heart
we stood there, above the stationary ground and unsettling umbrella clouds, between a yellow leprous school bus and a decrepit two-storey apartment, we stood there, our hands trapping each other like selfish blacksmiths in an era of iron scarcity. we looked like a suburban romeo and juliet. we looked like sofia coppola’s take on trip fontaine and lux lisbon, and we looked like unsubmissive louvre runners in godard’s band of outsiders. i yearned and itched and dreamed of whispering soft prose in your red ears; a poetry of my name and your name and a couple of similes and a couple of metaphors. the silence the clouds held spoke volumes, and it jostled me to the edge of insanity
i forgot my name. i forgot how things function and i forgot every prose, every tale, every story ever told when you looked up and looked at me with tearful eyes. i forgot the abcs, the 123s, i forgot to will my chest to rise and to fall and to rise and to fall, and suddenly i was disinclined to breathing. i was disinclined to breathing and i was inclined at the mural in front of me; its supposedly clear canvas pigmented with messy bleaches of all things bitter and all things sweet and all things bittersweet. the yellow bus went sour orange in hue and the sky changed from melancholic blue to weeping gray and i was looking at the kind of poetry i would probably need a lifelong IV hookup of
your eyes breed doorknobs in my lungs, and in my stomach a couple of padlocks, and i thought, if this is what love feels like, then i’d asphyxiate myself and swallow all the doorknob keys and padlock keys and keep them knotted in my throat
but you went away, step by step; you went away. since then, my eyes buoyed with a paperback of all my unsung words. since then, my tongue couldn’t taste anything but pure regret, and since then, nobody had cared to leave a flower and light a candle in the graveyard inside my ribcage
you brought with you the flowers in my eyes and the sun in my belly and since then, i became illusory
not to be a bit fascist, but i suggest you do not hand all of your bones and limbs to another person