(no subject)
I stay awake until I drop. It's hardest when it's dark of course, when the patterns my eyes make out of the murk start blending together and weighing down my lids. But plugging in a tacky plastic Virgin Mary nightlight into the outlet in the corner didn't help matters either. I'd just stare at it until it burnt a hole in the patterns and linger there until I drifted off. I resent sleeping most nights, but I just end up passing out in the warmth among those rhythmic breaths that have become my favorite lullaby. When I told Johnny about this, he smiled and muttered a line from a Bowie song I didn't know before he'd played it for me. A love so strong it tears their hearts to sleep through the fleeting hours of morning.
A fucking men to that, Dave.
Vanessa always seems to wake up first. Johnny and I have both said how amazing it is to open our eyes to her peering at us with an expression on her feline face that's somewhere between love and wonder. But I'm usually second. We smile at each other and look at Johnny and talk out of the sides of our mouths to avoid blasting each other with morning breath and we giggle and whisper about stupid shit until he wakes up. He always looks confused at first, then as his eyes focus, he gets that reluctant smile like he thinks we're plotting something. That's the thing. We used to plot, little tricks and games that would somehow nudge him into some reaction, but the tricks and games have disappeared now. It wasn't a conscious decision to abandon them, but we jointly, silently stopped when we realized that what we had to say to each other didn't need to be cloaked in humour. We wiped off the jester's hats and patted our hair into place and sat up straight so we'd be ready when his eyes opened next time, ready to be taken seriously, ready to move into the next phase of our relationship. Honesty.
No, of course we hadn't lied, but we had obscured. A matter of pride, slight embarrassment, protectiveness, sure. Mostly, we were a little scared that one of the trapeze artists in this act of delicate balance would kick the fucking bike and we'd all go over. But somewhere along the way, we found our footing and it all progressed perfectly, the greatest show on earth.
Comfortable, yes it is. But that's the word that people use for a relationship so worn in that it feels like an old pair of shoes. That's not what this is. This is comfortable like you feel when that elusive, ever-shifting romantic ideal steps out of your head and into reality and cracks a joke that makes you laugh so hard your eyes water. Then they play your new favourite song because they're dying to hear it and with this endearing nervous shifting, tell you they've been wanting to call but they weren't sure how you'd respond.
Times two.
I don't mean to be smug, but... suck on that, fate, you fickle bitch.
A fucking men to that, Dave.
Vanessa always seems to wake up first. Johnny and I have both said how amazing it is to open our eyes to her peering at us with an expression on her feline face that's somewhere between love and wonder. But I'm usually second. We smile at each other and look at Johnny and talk out of the sides of our mouths to avoid blasting each other with morning breath and we giggle and whisper about stupid shit until he wakes up. He always looks confused at first, then as his eyes focus, he gets that reluctant smile like he thinks we're plotting something. That's the thing. We used to plot, little tricks and games that would somehow nudge him into some reaction, but the tricks and games have disappeared now. It wasn't a conscious decision to abandon them, but we jointly, silently stopped when we realized that what we had to say to each other didn't need to be cloaked in humour. We wiped off the jester's hats and patted our hair into place and sat up straight so we'd be ready when his eyes opened next time, ready to be taken seriously, ready to move into the next phase of our relationship. Honesty.
No, of course we hadn't lied, but we had obscured. A matter of pride, slight embarrassment, protectiveness, sure. Mostly, we were a little scared that one of the trapeze artists in this act of delicate balance would kick the fucking bike and we'd all go over. But somewhere along the way, we found our footing and it all progressed perfectly, the greatest show on earth.
Comfortable, yes it is. But that's the word that people use for a relationship so worn in that it feels like an old pair of shoes. That's not what this is. This is comfortable like you feel when that elusive, ever-shifting romantic ideal steps out of your head and into reality and cracks a joke that makes you laugh so hard your eyes water. Then they play your new favourite song because they're dying to hear it and with this endearing nervous shifting, tell you they've been wanting to call but they weren't sure how you'd respond.
Times two.
I don't mean to be smug, but... suck on that, fate, you fickle bitch.