This theme brings back so many beautiful memories i’m gonna cry
(Name) was __________ ………………….. and it goes off from there, haha.
Artur is unkempt, never without his fingernails bitten down to the nub, he’s jealous. He’s mad. He’s angry over everything, over how his mom doesn’t remember his natural hair color, doesn’t remember his birthday, over how his dad wanted to name him after his company boss in hopes of burning a little brighter on his radar full of sharks. When he was fourteen, he joined the gang that picnicked with revolvers in their jean pockets around the edges of the poor side of neighborhood. He’d been breaking curfew and eating the sandwich he’d made and packed himself for dinner, since no one has bothered to come home that night, either. He was wearing a shirt another boy off his block had given him for his birthday, fire truck red, and enjoying the way the night air was wet enough to stick to his skin and cool off the the small sweat he’d worked up. He doesn’t remember what he was thinking when the bullet whizzed by and nicked his ear. He remembered falling down, he remembered shouting out. He remembered someone stepping on his right shoulder blade and the pop of unslotted bone, crunch of gravel and his futile struggles, the sloshing sound inside his head.
i’m glad you’re gone, i think. I’m glad i’m not you. And I’m glad my mom doesn’t worry over you anymore, she just worries over different things. And i’m glad my dad doesn’t yell over you anymore, he just yells over different things. Your cheekbones still stick out, there, isn’t that something to be happy about? I forgot.
Hey, susan, it’s so nice to see you because I like you so much, although you hate everything I put myself through. Susan, I’m sorry about that.
I have a letter addressed to you somewhere, I’m not sure where I hid it. I wrote it, fell asleep on it. They’ve been sewn in, speckles of my dreams. I like you enough to have them. Take care of them, I guess.
Don’t you get lost in those moments when your feelings are so infinite, when even the bones in your hands make you cry? I’m not looking down on you, I promise. I’m only trying to understand. Who was that? Who said those brave words, who felt those brave things? You were so in love, it’s laughable, but it’s such a good thing!
You laid on your floor that day for four hours, five hours, all day. You fell asleep. Remember when you got those aches? They were beautiful. That’s what you remember love as, my darling girl.
I believe in you.
Abe’s mouth was hot, but his fingers were soft on the hem of Mihashi’s shirt, rucked up just far enough to feel skin, and it was driving him slightly sideways with desire, with something he’d never known existed before. Mihashi trembled, hands tacky on the front of Abe’s school uniform, pressing the tips of his thumbs hard against the beat of his heart, feeling Abe’s pulse send a racket of sensation hurdling down his forearms, right down to his bent knees. It made him breathe funny and heavy, made every shift of Abe’s legs or head an overwhelming shock where it made contact with Mihashi, made stuttery, keening sounds break away from his mouth, over his teeth, the teeth Abe was laughing around, breathing and blowing on. No one was home, so the door to Abe’s room was wide, wide open, and every now and then a lazy draft would invite itself in and travel the course of Mihashi’s blown out spine, made him shiver and ache and arch into Abe even more, made him bite his lip and feel so, so dirty because Abe wouldn’t stifle his subtle grunts, wouldn’t hold himself back from pushing down against Mihashi’s hips and inhaling the scent of his neck and driving him absolutely insane.
The kisses were soft and the prodding was soft and the bed under them was soft. Daylight poured through the slits in the window over by Abe’s desk, warming the air above them, filling their mouths with heat whenever they needed to take in a rickety breath.
It was disastrous, the temperature, because it made Mihashi thrash a little on the inside. It tinged his flesh apple red, made the flush on the back of his neck tingle, made his toes curl and the small of his back tense, because it was too hot, too hot with Abe’s blunt nails skimming the expanse of his ribs, Abe’s lips, chapped and warm, breathe a breaking point into Mihashi’s ear. The pitcher squeaked something that surely couldn’t have been his voice, surely, when Abe’s hand slowly dragged it’s way down and rested at the end of his stomach, the top of his waistband, the edge of his coherence. He whispered something sincere that sounded both of a question and a reassurance to Mihashi before lifting himself up on his elbows just enough to catch the pitcher’s eyes. His hand was a unmoving thing - a concrete thing - just as weighted, in Mihashi’s head, and just the presence of it sent a jolt into his system, caused a lack of breath in his lungs.
"Mihashi," Abe hissed, his eyebrows suddenly knotted in an emotion that Mihashi had never seen before, a tie of dedication and maybe fear, maybe muted panic. Mihashi was still breathing too hard, lungs twin hills that deflated and inflated with his pulse,
but he still had enough air to sigh shyly and move his hand, shaking, to the quiet corner of Abe’s mouth, to smile afterward, to meet Abe’s stare with his own and keep it until his grin turned nervous enough to shake Abe out of his stupor, to exhale with tidy need when Mihashi nudged them closer together and stilled, an answer to Abe’s unasked question.
Abe’s eyes were mellow grey-white and beautiful and his lips were warm and wet on Mihashi’s open mouth because his hand wasn’t resting on his stomach anymore, wasn’t even in sight. Eyes fluttering closed and sighs chipped with sated sounds, Abe pliant and Mihashi willing and the two of them, so caught up in what this felt like, complete trust and sweeping, open love.
Efficient miracles and your hands on mine, and it doesn’t stop, probably never will, the chase from me to you and back again. You’re really something, but you’re mine, and I never want to share you. Let me take you somewhere where all I can see is your smile. Will you let me hold your hand? You’re scary, because you’re so gentle and silent. It’s scary how I want to keep you and leave behind everyone else. Is this what people talk about, wanting to cherish someone so dearly? It’s probably selfish of me. Isn’t it?
Breaking this thin and part by part. Your lonely words, my lonely mouth. Markers, everywhere. You’re a stain, a color. I’ll stick this to your bulletin board, the one you forgot. Maybe then you’ll run across me someday. Is this what they mean when they talk about caged jaybirds, or clipped butterflies? I don’t think. I’m not something beautiful, and this pain isn’t something that shows. In a way, you’re silk that drops from the slits of my hands because you’re soft and rare but scant, and you dirty easily. Your words taste like black coffee, though your eyes are glacier lakes on the brink of the world. But what’s the point of this, right?
You’ve never liked poetry.
The cracks in your hands are terminal, but your teeth are pretty when they peek from that slant on your mouth you call a smile. But it can’t be a smile, right? You’re dying. And when you’re dying, nothing is worth smiling for because everything is unfair. It’s not worth it, because it hurts too much. The people you love that you’ll never see again, the people you love that you’ll never get to meet. That smack of sound in your ears you’ll never get to feel bothered about, the rest of that dream you won’t get to struggle remembering, the little things, like that cool feeling of slipping your feet into a pair of shoes you left out for the night, trapping the taste of something sweet between your tongue and teeth, or stringing your hair together to see which end runs out first. There’s always been beauty in everything, but you chose to be blind to it so long ago, I can’t even remember.
But let me tell you something. Let me promise you something. I want to be there. And even though I want to be here, too, there is where you are. You’re a solitary figure, and I’m a cesspool of too many feelings you might find handy. You ventured into a forest long ago, and I don’t think you’ve found your way out yet. It’s a forest I’m afraid of, but you’ve always been worth it, even though you don’t think it yourself. Maybe we’ll tread in ditches, maybe we’ll be misplaced forever. Or maybe you’ll gather your bearings and choose my hand instead, and then maybe we’ll get somewhere that doesn’t spell out disaster and we can sit down and talk about why your eyes are so blue.
I’ll teach you something about poetry.
Poetry is not mindful. It’s not mindful of you or this or anything because it’s a rambling of rampant feelings that you find you can’t do anything with but tidy out, write out, flesh out, figure out. Poetry is an ugly sound your heart makes. Poetry is rude because it demands a proper way out, in loopy words and tasteful run on sentences, right? Poetry isn’t much of anything sometimes, though, because poetry isn’t a piano you can play, it’s not something that plucks at your ears, or flatters your eyes. It’s black on white and boring, if the voice in your head isn’t right.
but it’s your sound, it’s your buttermilk dropping into the pan atop your dingy stove. Who needs so much, anyways? We don’t even need enough. As long as the words are still mine and my favorite flavor, I’ll keep them. Mint, and slow.
Roxas was an old library. He walked with outstretched arms disguised as dusty shelves and perched with dusty books and he talked in an old, dusty language. He was buddies with Italo and played pool with Dostoyevsky. He was on a whole different level than everyone else. He was weird.
in a sweet move, he gathered his pitcher’s aimless fingers, and paused. They sought each other’s gaze to reassure themselves; that this moment wasn’t going away. Mihashi’s face, flushed as always, cheerless as always, moved in a flurry of affected hollows and hills, and it was in that hour of that day in that stagnant locker room that Abe came to terms with the fact that this - the peculiar, but captivating arrangement of Mihashi’s smile - was the most distressing thing he’d ever seen.
With a cotton mouth, he spoke.
"Mihashi," in all syllables and hushed tones, pain induced and so terrified. He looked up, lost his breath because Abe’s skin was peeling and peeling and there was his heartbeat, so intended to catch and tear. Their exchange put the world on it’s axis. Only then did Mihashi realize, indulging his dry-wheat lips, that between them lay something pivotal, and this jaunt of Abe’s give and Mihashi’s take was coming to a frightening conclusion.
Their fingers burned as if set by a fire. Abe was an incessant force, feeding the machine staking claim on Mihashi’s bones. It was a third’s instinct, a third’s mania. He is still not sure what the other bit could have been.
he saw it mid-way, right along where his lungs gave a heave and cried, all on their own. Mihashi’s mouth fit loose like a dream, but solid like a need. The chills that blew the coarse edges of his spine, rattled the spike in his stomach, were greedy, plowing him over with a cunning so deemed for this feeling, it stunned him.
All through it, through Abe’s marvels and Mihashi’s stunted breath, their palms closed in around each other - balmy, unrelenting.
he steals his first car when he’s five, out in the desert with his mom. her purse is a silver stripe in his peripherals, a miniature lizard he dreams about eating him in the dark. his mom is cursing something about his father under her breath and mickey lets his caprisun wander from out of his hands, onto the desert floor, the shrubs and hot sand, and has fun picking the shapes its shiny surface creates off the sun. mickey feels his arm being grabbed and he’s turned away from the squiggly triangles, the trapezoid split in two, and instead faces his mom; her own set of squiggly shapes giving her life (the eyeliner that looks like arrows pointing to either ear, the lashes of her bottom lid wilting and framing the circles under her eyes). Mickey revels because his mom is so beautiful and he gets in the car.
She adjusts the oval mirror that hangs from the dented ceiling of the car and pinches something between her fingers, two wires, two colorful wires mickey is excited to know the names of. Yellow and Blue.
"Mickey, dear." His mom looks slightly away from the view of sand, sand, sand, and sad shrubbery ahead of them to lend Mickey a wide, darling smile. A mom smile, a smile full of love and Mickey almost darts in her lap with eagerness to do as he’s told. He loves his mom so much.
"Where would you like to go, Mickey?" Her eyes are kind, the black curls on her head slipping down, down, down her back and over her shoulders, over the fabric of her frilly white dress and blue jeans with dark patches. Her eyes are brown like the soft mud at the bottom of the river mickey plays in when they visit grandma’s home, and her skin is warm like the towel she’ll bundle him in afterwards, singing him the quiet songs of his favorite cartoons.
"Disney……. land!" Mickey slaps his hands on the dashboard and it makes his mom laugh. The sound is a bell.
"Disneyland? Well…." She looks so happy, so happy, so tired, but so happy, and Mickey tries his hardest now to remember her like that. "I do think Minnie would be happy to see her sweetheart again, don’t you?"
Mickey’s eyes got bright and he nodded like he was dancing, anything to get his mom to say yes, and his mom nodded a few times, too, mimicking him affectionately and pressing his button nose in with the tip of her finger and turning around, starting the car, putting it in drive.