(no subject)
I’ve gotten the feeling we’ve let this community die. I’m as guilty as anyone, so here’s a contribution to revive la boheme.
You stink of three things, always the same.
Fresh nail polish, wrapping your arms carefully around my neck, so I know it’s still drying. The left hand will still be wet, a little less careless with that one.
I know at your computer you’ve got the bottle sitting there, not yet closed, smears of black staining the desk like blood.
You’re miles and miles of ribs, skin, and scars, all caught up in a pair of jeans.
I’m early, as always, and you’re still fifteen minutes behind, not ready yet. I do it on purpose. I can watch you prepare yourself to face the world, hiding behind yourself.
I know that the rest of your clothes are laid out on your unmade bed, folded neatly, study in contrasts. Like your pale skin and dark denim, the black shirt you’ll put on, the stark red on your lips to the black of your eyes.
You grin and disappear back in the bedroom, pulling on a shirt as you walk back. That’s when I’m struck with another other of your smells.
Laundry detergent, so I know you’re clean. It’s fresh and clean and it follows you as you pass, natural, not fake that comes in a bottle.
Sometimes I’m lazy and I just pick clothes up off the floor. They haven’t made it to the laundry basket, so they’re not really dirty. A shot of Febreze or deodorant, and I pronounced myself ready to go. But you’re nothing like that.
You do your laundry three times a week, every other day. Today is Friday, so you’d done it this morning.
Sometimes I come over with my own laundry, when it piles up so much that I can smell socks from my desk. I wash my clothes with yours, just so I can be closer to you for the few moments until it takes on my scent like a sponge.
But it fades, and I’m left trailing after him like a drug addict.
Stale pot, left over from this afternoon, or this morning. Not too sure when, anymore, it smells the same after five minutes or five hours, whether you’ve sat in the smoke until it’s absorbed into your clothes, your skin, your hair, or whether you’ve stuck yourself mostly out of the window to lessen the smell.
I thought you were suicidal the first time I saw it.
I love how it gets into my throat, harsh, I try to cough but I can’t. It stays there, like you, a dull reminder at the back of my throat, back of my mind, that you’re there, you’ll always be there, just you for me.
And it’s not the over-bright grin that you wear when you come back from getting air. Or the secret looks when you think no one will see, or the whispers that are too loud. It’s just how much more like yourself you become. It’s waiting your whole life for the minutes when you lose whatever made you doubt for a second that this world was meant to be yours.
I love how it makes you grin, tossing your hair to share the smell, so it’s nearly all I breath in, all I’d want to. It’s addictive, it’s horrible, and I don’t like the fact the life you’re wasting can be measured in grams. But if you stopped, you wouldn’t quite be you.
The sickly sweet of drying enamel, lemon clean of freshly laundered clothes, and the stale harshness of pot all combine to make something that is uniquely you. I know, sometimes, I love you.
Comment if you like, even if just to say you’re still out there.
You stink of three things, always the same.
Fresh nail polish, wrapping your arms carefully around my neck, so I know it’s still drying. The left hand will still be wet, a little less careless with that one.
I know at your computer you’ve got the bottle sitting there, not yet closed, smears of black staining the desk like blood.
You’re miles and miles of ribs, skin, and scars, all caught up in a pair of jeans.
I’m early, as always, and you’re still fifteen minutes behind, not ready yet. I do it on purpose. I can watch you prepare yourself to face the world, hiding behind yourself.
I know that the rest of your clothes are laid out on your unmade bed, folded neatly, study in contrasts. Like your pale skin and dark denim, the black shirt you’ll put on, the stark red on your lips to the black of your eyes.
You grin and disappear back in the bedroom, pulling on a shirt as you walk back. That’s when I’m struck with another other of your smells.
Laundry detergent, so I know you’re clean. It’s fresh and clean and it follows you as you pass, natural, not fake that comes in a bottle.
Sometimes I’m lazy and I just pick clothes up off the floor. They haven’t made it to the laundry basket, so they’re not really dirty. A shot of Febreze or deodorant, and I pronounced myself ready to go. But you’re nothing like that.
You do your laundry three times a week, every other day. Today is Friday, so you’d done it this morning.
Sometimes I come over with my own laundry, when it piles up so much that I can smell socks from my desk. I wash my clothes with yours, just so I can be closer to you for the few moments until it takes on my scent like a sponge.
But it fades, and I’m left trailing after him like a drug addict.
Stale pot, left over from this afternoon, or this morning. Not too sure when, anymore, it smells the same after five minutes or five hours, whether you’ve sat in the smoke until it’s absorbed into your clothes, your skin, your hair, or whether you’ve stuck yourself mostly out of the window to lessen the smell.
I thought you were suicidal the first time I saw it.
I love how it gets into my throat, harsh, I try to cough but I can’t. It stays there, like you, a dull reminder at the back of my throat, back of my mind, that you’re there, you’ll always be there, just you for me.
And it’s not the over-bright grin that you wear when you come back from getting air. Or the secret looks when you think no one will see, or the whispers that are too loud. It’s just how much more like yourself you become. It’s waiting your whole life for the minutes when you lose whatever made you doubt for a second that this world was meant to be yours.
I love how it makes you grin, tossing your hair to share the smell, so it’s nearly all I breath in, all I’d want to. It’s addictive, it’s horrible, and I don’t like the fact the life you’re wasting can be measured in grams. But if you stopped, you wouldn’t quite be you.
The sickly sweet of drying enamel, lemon clean of freshly laundered clothes, and the stale harshness of pot all combine to make something that is uniquely you. I know, sometimes, I love you.
Comment if you like, even if just to say you’re still out there.