“Hey,” a tired, soft greeting, she slips into the sofa, cotton pajamas frictionless against her pale, milky skin. Her creamy hair falling to one side, she cocks her head to look at him.
“Hey,” he replies.
Sometimes I think about him, too. It’s weird that. You stupid bastard, you. Goddamn you, you’re kind of charming sometimes, only sometimes. And I miss sitting next to you, you make class bearable. Now, that’s taking it too far.
I liked that sword of hers. She swung it with such ease and grace, it was elegant. I liked that show, I really did. It was so warm and so…warm.
I smell like that perfume grandmother sends from China, from the depth of some murky pool, perfume to cover the stench of death. Ceaseless reaper of souls, take mine, will you?
Oh god, oh god, oh god. OH GOD!
Were you thinking what I was thinking?
“Take my hand, stay with me a little while, stay right here with me.” He took her hands, forehead against hers, looking at her, pleading, those eyes of his. A gentle wind rustles the leaves, billowing across the endless plains of grass. Was he just lonely? High above the shimmering stars glittered and danced, across the ebony halls of space, the empty of the sky, the silent oceans of waves upon waves of light, stretching from the end of the universe to another, the enormity in which he was only a small part, a small part of a bigger whole. He pleads. “Stay. Stay right here.”
She nods, she nods, she nods, she will stay, “I will stay.” She assures him, gripping his hand tighter, she will stay. Because she wants to, for his sake? Because she wants. She’s staying, because she wants to. She wants to, she wants to be here, right here, with him, under the weight of a dying world, under the weight of her own foolishness, the weight of everything in her little world, the weight of it all crashing down, for him, for him, those pleading eyes, those hollow eyes. They need to be filled, like a mold, like a mold and she’ll pour herself in, fill them, stay with him.
“I will stay.” And the sadness, sweetest smile creeps across his lips, and maybe, maybe he’s found happiness. Only after knowing true despair will one know true happiness. The emptiness at the bottom of that well, that deep, abysmal well, that was his, that was his. What did he drop down there, what did he give, what did he give to be apart of this world, what did he give that he can’t get back now? He grapples, reaches, searches and found her hand, her hand. And as he stands, here, there, here and there, under the blue blanket of the sky, the eerie quiet and echoing love of her words, he smiles, smiles to himself. He’s found it. No, no, she found it for him, reached down that well and emerged, radiant, wet, and in her hands, she’s found it, found what he once lost. Himself? Maybe, maybe a chipped self.
My eyes are itchy, dry? Tired? I sleep, I sleep now. Finally, it seems, I sleep.