[5] flashfic
music. inspiration.
concerto, pt 1.
romance is dead. this is my epiphany as we lay spread-eagle on the floor under the bay windows and you trace veins on my hand: i told you i hate it when you do that, it makes me feel old, spider veins just itching to show their blueprint of time against my skin. you laughed at me but you held my palm against the floor and kissed up my bruises like they were beautiful.
‘fuck science,’ i say.
‘i failed physics,’ you reply. i know what you’re going to say: but chemistry was my best subject, and i can teach you something about biology. so i shut you up before you can start with a hand against your lips. you stick your tongue out and it’s so ridiculous and immature that suddenly i can’t stop laughing, and when my elbow hits the coffee table and a textbook crashes onto the floor and freaks out the cats and i should be holding my breath because i’m sure the tenant downstairs is going to murder us for this, i just can’t stop. and you touch my shoulder, and you look into my eyes, and for a second: we’re beautiful.
i guess i’ve always been a romantic because all i can talk about are the ways we were wonderful and the places where i want to hold your hand. and you’ve never been a cynic, because sometimes i come home and i see you against the window with your hands splayed out and you never tell me but i know you’re pretending you can touch the sky. and maybe it’s a little too much of a fantasy land, around here, because neither of us are doing very well - you’re still chain smoking in the bathroom while i pretend you don’t taste like the ashtray, and i’m still borrowing money i’ll never pay back from friends who pity the way all of my shirts have patches. at 2am, sometimes i catch you crying.
at 4am, sometimes you catch me with new bruises and the smile in your eyes just says: look at us, we’re going to fall off the edge, some day. and i just look at your lips and think: if i keep kissing you long enough can i breathe the cancer away and suck out all your bad luck?
the answer is: no.
but i open up my arms like i’m some kind of hero in a comic book that neither of us read, because you liked your poetry and i liked my romance novels and these days we can’t even afford magazines, and you open up your arms too and there’s this stand off. ‘come on,’ you say, ‘you’re the one who’s broken this time.’
and ‘i love you.’ i say.
the ugly linoleum we’re standing on doesn’t do anything for the grey cold of your feet. ‘you need a pedicure.’ i take a step forward. ‘well, you need a raise.’ you look me in the eyes.
‘well, maybe i’m happy here.’ i say, and we meet in the middle, and we hold each other tight and we laugh because we know it’s only half a lie. ‘i’m sorry,’ you say. it breaks my heart.
concerto, pt 1.
romance is dead. this is my epiphany as we lay spread-eagle on the floor under the bay windows and you trace veins on my hand: i told you i hate it when you do that, it makes me feel old, spider veins just itching to show their blueprint of time against my skin. you laughed at me but you held my palm against the floor and kissed up my bruises like they were beautiful.
‘fuck science,’ i say.
‘i failed physics,’ you reply. i know what you’re going to say: but chemistry was my best subject, and i can teach you something about biology. so i shut you up before you can start with a hand against your lips. you stick your tongue out and it’s so ridiculous and immature that suddenly i can’t stop laughing, and when my elbow hits the coffee table and a textbook crashes onto the floor and freaks out the cats and i should be holding my breath because i’m sure the tenant downstairs is going to murder us for this, i just can’t stop. and you touch my shoulder, and you look into my eyes, and for a second: we’re beautiful.
i guess i’ve always been a romantic because all i can talk about are the ways we were wonderful and the places where i want to hold your hand. and you’ve never been a cynic, because sometimes i come home and i see you against the window with your hands splayed out and you never tell me but i know you’re pretending you can touch the sky. and maybe it’s a little too much of a fantasy land, around here, because neither of us are doing very well - you’re still chain smoking in the bathroom while i pretend you don’t taste like the ashtray, and i’m still borrowing money i’ll never pay back from friends who pity the way all of my shirts have patches. at 2am, sometimes i catch you crying.
at 4am, sometimes you catch me with new bruises and the smile in your eyes just says: look at us, we’re going to fall off the edge, some day. and i just look at your lips and think: if i keep kissing you long enough can i breathe the cancer away and suck out all your bad luck?
the answer is: no.
but i open up my arms like i’m some kind of hero in a comic book that neither of us read, because you liked your poetry and i liked my romance novels and these days we can’t even afford magazines, and you open up your arms too and there’s this stand off. ‘come on,’ you say, ‘you’re the one who’s broken this time.’
and ‘i love you.’ i say.
the ugly linoleum we’re standing on doesn’t do anything for the grey cold of your feet. ‘you need a pedicure.’ i take a step forward. ‘well, you need a raise.’ you look me in the eyes.
‘well, maybe i’m happy here.’ i say, and we meet in the middle, and we hold each other tight and we laugh because we know it’s only half a lie. ‘i’m sorry,’ you say. it breaks my heart.