well... all i really want is to be happy, even if it's for but a moment. i want that. i want it so badly, and if that happiness decides to leave i want it to hurt so much i can barely breathe, because then i know i'll be able to look back one day and know there was a time where nothing was just okay.
i'll remember being a comet and you being my sky, and together we were something that resembled infinity.
He was an utterance of undoing, with a shy smile and plain brown eyes. He had tousled, almost black hair, and glowed with both poignancy and tribulations. Every time I thought about it, thought about him, all I recalled was him being a dreamer and a lover and very talented at both. When I was with him, insecure and stressed, I forgot all those inconvenient times where holding on to him was almost second nature, and how my hands left bruises.
I still did not know which was worse, that I had memorised every single thing that he liked, or that I couldn’t manage to shake the way his fingers felt when they traced the scars of a happy childhood on my skin. There was something between us that just felt like we never really saw one another for who we really were.
It was December. There were permanent wrinkles on my forehead. I always craved sushi, which I couldn’t have. As always, we were both lonely people and yet never alone. (Not even in a bar we once visited on our third date, sitting sober on bar stools too busy gawking at one another. That was such a long time ago.) Today, he was with his friends and I was with a swelling belly. He looked at me once, and I knew there would never be room for another. I had always known, and I also knew I couldn’t have him. I was there for someone else, yet I couldn’t help but look back and smile. He sat down next to me with a beer firmly in his hand, abandoning the people who told him not to—leaving the friends he should’ve listened to.
“Always drifting back to one another,” he started.
And I told him, “As we should,” like I deserved to have him in my life. I remembered right then how there was nothing poetic about him. He had no rhythm, no rhyme; there was not a pause amidst his words or lisp, though he seemed to have worked through that. There wasn’t a universe in his eyes; no love from me for him between my thighs.
“Or shouldn’t,” he murmured. The thing was, he held on instead of letting go and I thought he was mad for all of it, but, somehow, I read his soul in seven million ways and thought of nothing other than the fact that he was beautiful. And maybe right. “This always costs me,” he added.
I kept silent.
We had built our foundations on fallible philosophies, polishing them to make them shine like havens. He had planted a catatonic fear into my bones, a chronic feast of failure echoing in the corners of my mind, so strong I could not shake it. My center of gravity had always been meek, most days non-existent, but seeing him always made up for it somehow.
“Is it worth it?” he asked.
Of course, it wasn’t. We had been living completely separate lives, even when we were together. We always ended up running parallel to one another, though. It never mattered how far apart we were, I always felt this pull towards him, as though he was the epitome of my life. In comparison to him, I’d never go out with a bang. Next to him, I was terribly small.
He looked me over whilst taking the first sip from his beer. My face was rounding from the pregnancy, which made me feel ugly in front of him. I put an arm around my belly, trying to hide the bump that couldn’t be hidden.
“How far along are you?” His voice was both sharp and loving.
“I’m not drinking,” I pointed out almost instantly. I was reminiscing. I was... waiting.
“I didn’t say you were.” His expression was one of confusion. I imagined how I appeared to him; barely breathing, watching every word I said. “I just... are you okay?”
Part of me wanted to look away from him and pretend that we never met here. Part of me wanted to take his hand and place it on my stomach and ask if he could feel her kicking. I just wanted us to be beautifully spun metaphors, not chances, not cold and empty competitors who kept challenging one another to see who could handle more misery. I suppose I won, being rewarded with an emptiness of constant silence. Left disappointed, I wished I had something to fill the void.
I’m sure I wouldn’t be there if I had missed that train four years ago. Was I okay? I had run like crazy, and maybe I should have been late that day. I remembered how one of my heels broke and I had one shoe on, one off. People kept staring at me. I thought my success was something I should celebrate with my fist up in the air and a loud “gotcha darling” as the doors closed right behind me. I nearly collided with him. That was one of the last times I actually laughed, a real laugh, I mean. The kind of laughter that started in your tummy, but expanded so quickly you were doubling over and your entire body shook with it.
“Will this ever be worth it?” I echoed his question. Someone else's child was growing inside of me. The tears were blurring my peripheral vision with every drop of pent-up sadness. “I come here to remember everything,” I barely managed to say. “Can’t we just...”
“Need someone else?” he finished for me. I nodded. “I’m trying. It looks like you are too.” He pointed towards my stomach. Her name would be Marlene. I would name her after our dead child like it would be an honour. It wasn't; it would have made him angry. “I’m happy for you.”
“All right.” He took a sip from his beer. He got up from his bar stool. “You know, I see you,” he said. He looked at me earnestly. I remembered when I looked into those eyes for the first time and how I had felt a stir within myself. I remembered the way he had looked at me when I told him I was leaving. “I have always seen you,” he said and left first.
current obsessions: one piece, murakami, the song of achilles, korean dramas, sherlock, marvel universe, ghibli and disney and oscar nominations.
side note #1: due to the fact that Corrupt_Enigma found gay midget porn, she's placed here as an honour to her hard work to society. side note #3 i am vikare is my mule. side note #4 captain...we've lost sidenote #2.
further along the red brick road is darkness, my undeniably terrific humans, which slaughter mother nature, throw thy stones fellow oxygen inhalers! i shan’t judge thou for i have made plenty mistakes, took many bullets, stopped quite a few trains and finished off many fire spitting dinosaurs, but in the end, i am what i am: a magical peanut, and a writer.
just don't piss the flippin' dragons out of me and we can be flying hippos on rainbows together.
go on, go on, move along.
johnnie walker, the cat-killer, is unable to receive your calls. please hold and enjoy our information below.
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☞most call me yu or shae.
☞ and i am mature and childish and my humour is ******** up; maybe because i'm a foul-mouthed, dallying, human being with the patience of the gods.
☞leo, born a bilingual b*****d in nineteen ninety-two with a fascination for psychological/horror thingies.
☞questioning sanity while continuing being a sleep deprived visitor during the nocturnal hours.
☞spout too many ******** stupid remarks and can’t cook for s**t.
☞i love music, from classical to rock, then to k and j-pop and i'm lazy and love food and my nintendo ds.
☞the wordy b*****d you wanna avoid because, you know, placed in slytherin, and probably an airbender.
☞ iron man knocked batman from number one and weeping angels have me being paranoid.
☞devours books and strives on words and movies and tv shows and manga and anime and i need a life.
☞don’t like even numbers and don’t like people, well, unless you cook for me, but i panic and am nervous 23 hours a day.
☞no sugar-coated lullabies here, brutal honesty which means it is a given that i am a total a*****e, if you wish, with perfect apparating skills.
side note #5 also a professional bum.
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backed goods and cookie-doos:
i collect bugs // inks, so feel free—no, just ******** send them. no, srsly, pls; thank you very much, wonderful stranger. iowe you a squeeze.
now, if you are still ******** here, excuse my language, get the ******** off of my profile, you traitorous goblin. i am the stalker, not the one being stalked, unless, of course, you wish to leave a lovely comment talking about how nice my hair is today—or you could leave a rude one, saying how much i resemble your mother.
side note #7 if you happen to return in the year twenty seventy-seven, i plan to massacre everyone visiting my profile then with burning-evil-leaves.