Still Ill
Your right hand on my left knee just below the hem of my dress of flowers, of blues, and of hopes. My skin searched for the cold metal of reality that should be on one your fingers, but wasn’t. Your hand, never calloused, heavy and firm like how I wish you were to me, to us.
“We’ve known each other before, right?”But it doesn’t feel like it. We have become strangers. We were reduced to being acquaintances who could not extend a small talk for more than three exchanges—a far cry from a month of conversation from morning til the wee hours of the dawn, drunk or sober, working or resting, loving and hating.
“Ten minutes.”
Was what you said. “Ten chances,” was what I heard. I answered yes all the same. I will never get tired of giving you chances to make things better, even if with every door closed and another opens, a part of me is broken, probably beyond repair.
“I am missing you, too.”
And then, you kissed me. Society prevents men from showing emotions. They are feminized with each word they utter that speak of feelings, but the honey of your voice, I drink it. Your vulnerability was all too sweet. My throat, it swells—in hurt, in wound, in anticipation, in belief.
I sat there, guilt overwhelming me, for ditching the promise of a night of dancing and of youth to drink in this illusion. Your every word stitched my blanket of happiness that I lost and needed the most in the familiar dread of cold nights. We raised our glasses of the Mistake Whiskey, hands in the air, hearts on our sleeves, and we toast to the night of letting go.
“It’s been a long time since we last talked like this.”
It was in the wee hours of the morning that we find solace in each other’s comfortable, yet overwhelming presence. The sighs we exchanged, in between conversations, laughs, kisses, and silences rang in my ears, echoing, mirroring, and recognizing the forbidden longing.
I put my hand in the middle of your chest, not daring to place it on your heart, for fear of having the beating might wake me up from this dream.You covered my body with your kisses, sealing every exposed part with lies and promises.
We finally saw the end of this missing feeling. We bask in each other’s presence, in the smell of vices—of smoke, of alcohol, of love, and of lust—it covers me and stays with me until the morning after, until the beginning of another missing feeling. It envelops me, keeping the thousand pieces of me from floating away from my core of logic and reason to the eternal abyss of the unknown.
Under the iron bridge we kissed
And although I ended up with sore lips
It just wasn’t like the old days anymore
No, it wasn’t like those days
Cross posted at tintearjerky.blogspot.com.
