(no subject)
Title: satin in a coffin[s/a]
notes: a little something i posted on SATD that got rejected for BAD GRAMMAR. bullshit. if anyone still reads this, then im that much more grateful.
standalones
satin in a coffin[s/a]
It’s sort of like vacuuming up ants.
Off the carpet. That’s what he’s like.
I’m kneeling on the sidewalk in front of the little apartment complex, tying my shoes before I run to catch the train.
There’s a beaten down pair of Chucks near my elbow, and I look up. It’s him, from last week at Border’s, in the photography section.. All bright brown eyes. A cigarette dangling between his lips and holding two Arizona cans. He tilts one up and grins.
“For you?”
I shake my head. “You never called.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Half a joint later. I'm swimming in the scent of him with his fingers pressed into the small of my back. We're sitting in a lawn chair on the shore next to the pier. I'm melting faster and then I'm being tossed back into the cold, cold ocean and every part of me freezes up again.
And this boy jumps in after me.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He's gone three days later. He's like vacuuming ants up off the carpet. They keep running, running until they're gone. They're fucking running.
Any little piece of him I ha ve left I've burned, trashed, fucking ruined until it's all a pile of dirt I pour onto the ground in my sunflower plant out on the terrace.
He's like ants, like the spaces between the leaves on tree branches.
It's immeasureable.
And I miss every part of him.
notes: a little something i posted on SATD that got rejected for BAD GRAMMAR. bullshit. if anyone still reads this, then im that much more grateful.
standalones
satin in a coffin[s/a]
It’s sort of like vacuuming up ants.
Off the carpet. That’s what he’s like.
I’m kneeling on the sidewalk in front of the little apartment complex, tying my shoes before I run to catch the train.
There’s a beaten down pair of Chucks near my elbow, and I look up. It’s him, from last week at Border’s, in the photography section.. All bright brown eyes. A cigarette dangling between his lips and holding two Arizona cans. He tilts one up and grins.
“For you?”
I shake my head. “You never called.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Half a joint later. I'm swimming in the scent of him with his fingers pressed into the small of my back. We're sitting in a lawn chair on the shore next to the pier. I'm melting faster and then I'm being tossed back into the cold, cold ocean and every part of me freezes up again.
And this boy jumps in after me.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He's gone three days later. He's like vacuuming ants up off the carpet. They keep running, running until they're gone. They're fucking running.
Any little piece of him I ha ve left I've burned, trashed, fucking ruined until it's all a pile of dirt I pour onto the ground in my sunflower plant out on the terrace.
He's like ants, like the spaces between the leaves on tree branches.
It's immeasureable.
And I miss every part of him.