this picture gets me.
the eiffel tower is bent over backwards,
but where i go, i bring that love with me.
the fields goldened by the sun; fears and sadness overcome.
we are never sound, dead is dead is dead,
from the toes, a shiver quakes a thought.
my hands are never steady, so i need you to hold them,
because the journey is more important than the destination.
dreadful bikini bitch. i just wish you’d stay away.
Incense creeps headily through the air in visible vapors, like a slinking, fragrant cat. It twists with a purr around the fleeting cigarette smoke that rises from Crow’s Marlboro, glowing embers turning into gathering ash. Jaded fawn eyes observe the mingling substances in the air from beneath dark lashes, thick and groomed generously with a mascara wand (days ago). Dark hair frames angry, jutting cheekbones and piles in loose circles on skinny shoulders. Crow’s purple lips release a held-in breath and black eyelids blink lazily. The combination cigarette smoke and incense hovers beneath the ceiling fan, which only has one working bulb out of four, and Crow watches the light filter through it.
Across the room from the battered maroon armchair Crow is sprawled in, Nye and Knox lay on the equally damaged plaid couch, entwined just as the smoke and incense. Nye is the smoke—all quick, fading touches and sharp movements—while Knox, the incense, remains calm and unhurried in manner and mind. Silently they move together, never leaving more than a fraction of space between their bodies.
And when Gizmo walks in—brown corduroy pants too short in the legs and too loose around the hips, wearing badly at the knees—Crow gets up, takes a day old, half-empty bottle of very bad beer off the floor, and dumps it over the human knot that is Nye and Knox. Nye shivers, untangles himself, and follows Crow out of the room, buttoning his pants and groaning as he goes. Gizmo takes Nye’s place on the couch, sliding down next to the steady heat that is Knox, who says hello by sneaking his hands into Gizmo’s back pockets.
In the kitchen, Nye and Crow lay on the tile floor, passing a cigarette back and forth between them, staring at nothing above them. Benny comes home and stands next to Crow’s head, and Crow traces circles on Benny’s ankle with an elegant finger. Benny drops down in between the two on the floor and stretches out in the kitchen that has no table. As soon as his arms go up in the stretch, Nye and Crow huddle in; burrowing into Benny’s broad chest. He smiles and his arms loop around the both of them. Nye puts the cigarette out on the tile and winds his legs around Benny’s before shutting his eyes in peace. Crow’s eyes stay open, tears dripping from the dark saucers that serve as eyes, but her breathing deepens and evens as Benny’s calloused fingers comb through her hair.
i feel like i don’t mean anything to you. sometimes i feel like just a washed out shade of grey, a fading friend, a part of your history and not your future. i feel like if i was sitting on a beach and a wave came and took me away, you would not notice. you would not try and save me if i didn’t know how to swim. days would pass and you would never ask where i went. you would just move on.
Obviously this went downhill fast, ha. I was a bit distracted the past week whilst having the pleasure of my boyfriend visiting me at home. I’ve had time to write the past two days and just frankly haven’t been as inspired. But hopefully today or tomorrow I will get back on track. 365’s are hard!!