[ PODFIC, POEM, ART ] And It Hurts Like Hell
Title: And It Hurts Like Hell
Podficers: heavenly_rain & ohmydarlingdear
Authors: climb & canyousayhot
Artist: canyousayhot
Team: angst
Prompt: hell, highway, touch
Word Count: ~900
Rating: PG
Warnings: Apparently I am LJ-incompetent, sorry for all the unnecessary s p a c e s :(
Summary: Eames loves Arthur. Arthur loves Eames. On a burnt piece of sketch paper in the forest. On a crumpled piece of graphing paper in a long forgotten warehouse. On the inside of a book left in a used bookstore. On torn out pages from a moleskin (carefully folded and kept close to the breast). These are the words they should have said to each other, but never quite did.
[ And It Hurts Like Hell ]
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't you.
If, under all those words and ignored phone calls, I didn't know what you feel like.
Bruised.
Soft, like the spot on a pepper that no one wants to eat.
The meat at the supermarket that's package is pockmarked with little finger indents
children who didn't know any better.
You know, we were children once.
Up and down the aisles,
stealing handfuls of pick-n-mix and refusing the things that were
Good for us.
When who was right was dictated by who could yell the
LOUDEST.
You won't let me touch you anymore and it
isn't what you think.
I don't let you touch me anymore
not because I hate you
(even if I do hate you)
not because I want to be far away
(I miss knowing closeness, I do - do you believe that?)
not because I'm done.
You're almost always right and I kind of hate that about you
almost as much as I hate it when I'm wrong
(that's a lot, but you know that too.)
I don't want to have these conversations where
you open up the dialogue and I'm
always the one closing it
with a phone that goes straight to voicemail, an address that keeps changing, an identity that doesn't want you to find it.
Finding people? That's in my job description
not yours.
Sometimes I wonder if you want me to find you
and I know it's not the same:
keeping tabs on your coordinates
(making sure you're still breathing)
as it would be to just pick up the phone
or hop on a plane
fall into a dream
and say hello,
but it is what it is.
I don't let you touch me anymore.
(But sometimes, I think about it.)
Sometimes when you're
out of my reach
I think about you.
What? You thought I would find someone else like you?
That I would look to my left and see your replacement--
smiling (yours is so much brighter)
laughing (god what I wouldn't do to hear it again)
touching (will I ever find someone with hands like yours?)
-- doing all the things you thought I tricked you into?
I hate coffee and you have me drinking it
just to feel you in my mouth again.
You always tasted so
bitter.
Why is it so easy to forget that you are a thief
just like I am?
In your pressed linens and starched polyesters
you are a man who steals things
with those hands that raze the topography of my body; nothing more than a brush of your knuckles to my flesh and I am set alight.
Its driving me crazy, the thought of (you on me, me on you,
above
below
around
within) those answers at the tip of your tongue.
You know they're there, I can see it in the way you look at me.
Like you know I know,
And you're waiting for me to make you say it but
I can't
figure out why your eyes keep finding mine.
I'm running a job in the heart of Seoul and then I'm
in the middle of a dream set two hundred years ago
and hiding out between a nowhere town in Michigan and
the last city you stole through like smoke, like silence.
I was fidgeting away the hours because
(as you know)
I'm not very good at standing still
thinking of how much the frozen curvatures of the lake
reminded me of your eyes
the gray blue that in the wrong-right light
looks green
(looks right through me.)
No one aside from you does that
as far as I know
as far as I've known.
It wasn't always like this because, I guess
the theory is that things only hurt if they matter
like a gunshot wound, like being stabbed, like
being held underwater until
you forget how to breathe.
You have a specific sound when you're asleep;
did you know?
In the fractal light of three A.M. the moon
would cut gray-blue slants across you
and because I've never been good with sleeping
(that's standing still too)
I would stare until new images fashioned themselves
from the black of the ink and the tan of your skin
stories that you hadn't told me just yet.
The highway goes on forever in this one dream I still have.
You've called shotgun even though it's never an issue
because it's just us
chasing the end of it but not caring if it actually does.
I won't tell you the truth about that long year
being reckless
since you were there too;
I won't tell you
the truth
(I miss...)
Anyway, it's not enough to miss or want; I'd have to need you.
Imagine if I did.
Imagine if I needed you.
Imagine that inside me there's a ghost
with your name on it.
I wish I could tell you since I think sometimes because
that might be the way to make the hard parts easy,
the way to get back into the car and strip the night down,
how to find that one too-early morning where you're holding me
down, quiet, but never still --
-- how to fill the empty room with the sounds and sights
that are mutual to us
one story
our story.
But I don't need you and we don't talk about this.
We don't talk about anything.
I keep it that way.
Podficers: heavenly_rain & ohmydarlingdear
Authors: climb & canyousayhot
Artist: canyousayhot
Team: angst
Prompt: hell, highway, touch
Word Count: ~900
Rating: PG
Warnings: Apparently I am LJ-incompetent, sorry for all the unnecessary s p a c e s :(
Summary: Eames loves Arthur. Arthur loves Eames. On a burnt piece of sketch paper in the forest. On a crumpled piece of graphing paper in a long forgotten warehouse. On the inside of a book left in a used bookstore. On torn out pages from a moleskin (carefully folded and kept close to the breast). These are the words they should have said to each other, but never quite did.
[ And It Hurts Like Hell ]
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't you.
If, under all those words and ignored phone calls, I didn't know what you feel like.
Bruised.
Soft, like the spot on a pepper that no one wants to eat.
The meat at the supermarket that's package is pockmarked with little finger indents
children who didn't know any better.
You know, we were children once.
Up and down the aisles,
stealing handfuls of pick-n-mix and refusing the things that were
Good for us.
When who was right was dictated by who could yell the
LOUDEST.
You won't let me touch you anymore and it
isn't what you think.
I don't let you touch me anymore
not because I hate you
(even if I do hate you)
not because I want to be far away
(I miss knowing closeness, I do - do you believe that?)
not because I'm done.
You're almost always right and I kind of hate that about you
almost as much as I hate it when I'm wrong
(that's a lot, but you know that too.)
I don't want to have these conversations where
you open up the dialogue and I'm
always the one closing it
with a phone that goes straight to voicemail, an address that keeps changing, an identity that doesn't want you to find it.
Finding people? That's in my job description
not yours.
Sometimes I wonder if you want me to find you
and I know it's not the same:
keeping tabs on your coordinates
(making sure you're still breathing)
as it would be to just pick up the phone
or hop on a plane
fall into a dream
and say hello,
but it is what it is.
I don't let you touch me anymore.
(But sometimes, I think about it.)
Sometimes when you're
out of my reach
I think about you.
What? You thought I would find someone else like you?
That I would look to my left and see your replacement--
smiling (yours is so much brighter)
laughing (god what I wouldn't do to hear it again)
touching (will I ever find someone with hands like yours?)
-- doing all the things you thought I tricked you into?
I hate coffee and you have me drinking it
just to feel you in my mouth again.
You always tasted so
bitter.
Why is it so easy to forget that you are a thief
just like I am?
In your pressed linens and starched polyesters
you are a man who steals things
with those hands that raze the topography of my body; nothing more than a brush of your knuckles to my flesh and I am set alight.
Its driving me crazy, the thought of (you on me, me on you,
above
below
around
within) those answers at the tip of your tongue.
You know they're there, I can see it in the way you look at me.
Like you know I know,
And you're waiting for me to make you say it but
I can't
figure out why your eyes keep finding mine.
I'm running a job in the heart of Seoul and then I'm
in the middle of a dream set two hundred years ago
and hiding out between a nowhere town in Michigan and
the last city you stole through like smoke, like silence.
I was fidgeting away the hours because
(as you know)
I'm not very good at standing still
thinking of how much the frozen curvatures of the lake
reminded me of your eyes
the gray blue that in the wrong-right light
looks green
(looks right through me.)
No one aside from you does that
as far as I know
as far as I've known.
It wasn't always like this because, I guess
the theory is that things only hurt if they matter
like a gunshot wound, like being stabbed, like
being held underwater until
you forget how to breathe.
You have a specific sound when you're asleep;
did you know?
In the fractal light of three A.M. the moon
would cut gray-blue slants across you
and because I've never been good with sleeping
(that's standing still too)
I would stare until new images fashioned themselves
from the black of the ink and the tan of your skin
stories that you hadn't told me just yet.
The highway goes on forever in this one dream I still have.
You've called shotgun even though it's never an issue
because it's just us
chasing the end of it but not caring if it actually does.
I won't tell you the truth about that long year
being reckless
since you were there too;
I won't tell you
the truth
(I miss...)
Anyway, it's not enough to miss or want; I'd have to need you.
Imagine if I did.
Imagine if I needed you.
Imagine that inside me there's a ghost
with your name on it.
I wish I could tell you since I think sometimes because
that might be the way to make the hard parts easy,
the way to get back into the car and strip the night down,
how to find that one too-early morning where you're holding me
down, quiet, but never still --
-- how to fill the empty room with the sounds and sights
that are mutual to us
one story
our story.
But I don't need you and we don't talk about this.
We don't talk about anything.
I keep it that way.