static
He’s there, in the quiet shadow of passing rain clouds, the sunlight playing on wet asphalt, dazzling. And perhaps, if you look close enough, close your eyes and press your fists against them hard enough, there’s a breath within that bitter cold new snowfall of yet another year slumbering by, a smile reflected in the metallic glint of cars blue grey red on the interstate, maybe even a touch in the form of the last leaves falling, late autumn wind pulling them down in russet colored swirls.
He’s there and some days, standing alone in line for a ticket for the subway, you think it’s supposed to make you feel better. Make you breathe a little easier, walk without your head down counting your steps, the spider web cracks running haphazard in the pavement but it doesn’t, not when all it ever does is remind you that he’s not here.
(Summer, he likes summer. Sea and sun and surf, driving with the windows down, the radio turned up. You sing and its not a perfect harmonization, you and him but it’s not like it matters. Later, when he pulls you down into cool sheets, touching the smooth angles of your face, you’ll find that you’re in sync with him after all.)
It’s a Tuesday when he leaves, sometime around six-ish with luggage in one hand, boarding pass in another.
“Put that away, knowing you; you’ll probably leave it in the backseat of the cab later.”
His little idiosyncrasies, you like to think you know most of them, right down to the smallest ones that make you smile and him, chide you for needing to baby a man his age.
“Well if you’ll act like one then maybe I wouldn’t have to,” you retort and bustle him out the door, no time for I love you’s when there’s a flight to catch.
“It’ll be 4am, local, when I get there.”
“Call me anyway.”
9am and you stumble out of bed, bleary, to the shrill electronic scream of an alarm clock. Stupid, forgetful bastard, you allow yourself to think and flip on the tv, background noise to fill the silence he’s left behind.
(There is this one time, months and months and a lifetime ago. It catches your fancy, that little trinket in the window and you linger, wait for him to catch up. It’s nothing much, really, just a set of carved music notes, ornaments for a Christmas that’s still 8 months away.
“What’re you looking at?”
“Ah, nothing. Train station’s that way, come on.”)
9.12am. You watch the news with a lump in your throat, hand reaching for the phone to dial a number, fingers hitting all the wrong ones on the keypad. 9.14am, you finally get it right but no, it’s not right after all, polite recorded voice on the other line telling you that this number is not in service, please try again later.
You try, you try, you try.
(“Christmas in April?”
“But of course, you can’t have too many Christmasses.”
“That’s not even a word.”
“Merry Christmas.”
You compose a jingle for him, a wooden little melody on the carpet as he puts tinsel in your hair.)
The more you linger on the thought, the more you think he would have liked to go like this. A dramatic explosion in the air, debris falling like confetti at a twisted birthday party, something out of an action flick. Boom bang crash the feel of his lips on yours, hands that leave possessive bruises he soothes later when you complain.
Yeah, you think and try not to look at the empty casket, catch the eye of disapproving family members that seem to think you don’t love him as much as they do. Bang crash boom, eh, Yoochun?
In a way, you’re glad there isn’t a body, and when it comes down to them heaving those clods of earth over the mahogany casket, it’s just an empty box in the ground. Like that, you can harbor the deluded hope that he’s somewhere out there, wandering, a huddled silhouette crouching in the cold, snowflakes tangled in his hair.
An elaborate prank of course, nothing less from him, but when he appears again, you’ll be sure to wring the life out of him, make him swear on his own grave (ha ha ha there really is one now, look what you’ve missed when you were away) he’ll never pull something stupid like this again.
A prank, a playful sleight of hand, his very best for you.
Your birthday comes and goes, 2 months now and you’re 25, older, still disillusioned, passing the one quarter mark of your life alone.
Anytime now, Yoochun-ah.
There aren’t any candles, no cake this year, just because there’s no one to buy them.
Anytime.
You don’t move out, don’t even dare to touch his things least he come back and yell at you for throwing out his clothes, his books.
“Junsu, love, you can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what? I’m no doing anything.”
“Precisely.”
One year and 5 months down the line, you start folding his clothes, standing like a fool in the morning sunlight with tears running down your cheeks as you clutch at the fabric, inhale his faded scent until it makes you dizzy, vision and coherent thought blurred.
Come back, you think.
Come back, come back.
As if wanting it enough will make it happen.
(He’s not without his faults, but of course, there is that one night he comes home with lager on his breath, someone else’s cologne in the crook of his neck.
“I didn’t mean-..”
“To lie? To find the worst way possible to tell me I’m inadequate?”
Silence, you push him away when he tries to kiss you, the thought of someone else’s lips on his making you sick.
“I’m sorry. I love you.”
For the longest time, you can’t figure out if there’s a full stop in the middle.)
You dream and of course, you know it’s a dream because he’s there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing with his shoelaces.
“I think I know you,” he says, and you take a seat beside him, lean a tired head on his shoulder.
“Of course you do.”
“Junsu,” he breathes and you remember how to breathe with him
“You’re dead, Chun-ah.”
“Ah...that’s a problem, isn’t it? Thank you anyway, Captain Obvious.”
There are things you want to ask him, so many things, important ones like how is heaven like, does it hurt to die; the miscellaneous things about his childhood, when did he learn to ride a bike, his first kiss. You settle on the most important one in the end but he already knows his answer before you can ask, a slow, sad smile you kiss the edges of.
“Love doesn’t end there.”
He drops his head on yours and despite everything, you wake up in the morning, curled on his side of the bed, tearstains on your pillow, half sob lodged in your throat as you claw at the sheets, think of the person that used to share them with you.
Yoochun
Yoochun
Yoochun
It’s the happiest you’ve felt in a long, long time.
[fin]
He’s there and some days, standing alone in line for a ticket for the subway, you think it’s supposed to make you feel better. Make you breathe a little easier, walk without your head down counting your steps, the spider web cracks running haphazard in the pavement but it doesn’t, not when all it ever does is remind you that he’s not here.
(Summer, he likes summer. Sea and sun and surf, driving with the windows down, the radio turned up. You sing and its not a perfect harmonization, you and him but it’s not like it matters. Later, when he pulls you down into cool sheets, touching the smooth angles of your face, you’ll find that you’re in sync with him after all.)
It’s a Tuesday when he leaves, sometime around six-ish with luggage in one hand, boarding pass in another.
“Put that away, knowing you; you’ll probably leave it in the backseat of the cab later.”
His little idiosyncrasies, you like to think you know most of them, right down to the smallest ones that make you smile and him, chide you for needing to baby a man his age.
“Well if you’ll act like one then maybe I wouldn’t have to,” you retort and bustle him out the door, no time for I love you’s when there’s a flight to catch.
“It’ll be 4am, local, when I get there.”
“Call me anyway.”
9am and you stumble out of bed, bleary, to the shrill electronic scream of an alarm clock. Stupid, forgetful bastard, you allow yourself to think and flip on the tv, background noise to fill the silence he’s left behind.
(There is this one time, months and months and a lifetime ago. It catches your fancy, that little trinket in the window and you linger, wait for him to catch up. It’s nothing much, really, just a set of carved music notes, ornaments for a Christmas that’s still 8 months away.
“What’re you looking at?”
“Ah, nothing. Train station’s that way, come on.”)
9.12am. You watch the news with a lump in your throat, hand reaching for the phone to dial a number, fingers hitting all the wrong ones on the keypad. 9.14am, you finally get it right but no, it’s not right after all, polite recorded voice on the other line telling you that this number is not in service, please try again later.
You try, you try, you try.
(“Christmas in April?”
“But of course, you can’t have too many Christmasses.”
“That’s not even a word.”
“Merry Christmas.”
You compose a jingle for him, a wooden little melody on the carpet as he puts tinsel in your hair.)
The more you linger on the thought, the more you think he would have liked to go like this. A dramatic explosion in the air, debris falling like confetti at a twisted birthday party, something out of an action flick. Boom bang crash the feel of his lips on yours, hands that leave possessive bruises he soothes later when you complain.
Yeah, you think and try not to look at the empty casket, catch the eye of disapproving family members that seem to think you don’t love him as much as they do. Bang crash boom, eh, Yoochun?
In a way, you’re glad there isn’t a body, and when it comes down to them heaving those clods of earth over the mahogany casket, it’s just an empty box in the ground. Like that, you can harbor the deluded hope that he’s somewhere out there, wandering, a huddled silhouette crouching in the cold, snowflakes tangled in his hair.
An elaborate prank of course, nothing less from him, but when he appears again, you’ll be sure to wring the life out of him, make him swear on his own grave (ha ha ha there really is one now, look what you’ve missed when you were away) he’ll never pull something stupid like this again.
A prank, a playful sleight of hand, his very best for you.
Your birthday comes and goes, 2 months now and you’re 25, older, still disillusioned, passing the one quarter mark of your life alone.
Anytime now, Yoochun-ah.
There aren’t any candles, no cake this year, just because there’s no one to buy them.
Anytime.
You don’t move out, don’t even dare to touch his things least he come back and yell at you for throwing out his clothes, his books.
“Junsu, love, you can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what? I’m no doing anything.”
“Precisely.”
One year and 5 months down the line, you start folding his clothes, standing like a fool in the morning sunlight with tears running down your cheeks as you clutch at the fabric, inhale his faded scent until it makes you dizzy, vision and coherent thought blurred.
Come back, you think.
Come back, come back.
As if wanting it enough will make it happen.
(He’s not without his faults, but of course, there is that one night he comes home with lager on his breath, someone else’s cologne in the crook of his neck.
“I didn’t mean-..”
“To lie? To find the worst way possible to tell me I’m inadequate?”
Silence, you push him away when he tries to kiss you, the thought of someone else’s lips on his making you sick.
“I’m sorry. I love you.”
For the longest time, you can’t figure out if there’s a full stop in the middle.)
You dream and of course, you know it’s a dream because he’s there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing with his shoelaces.
“I think I know you,” he says, and you take a seat beside him, lean a tired head on his shoulder.
“Of course you do.”
“Junsu,” he breathes and you remember how to breathe with him
“You’re dead, Chun-ah.”
“Ah...that’s a problem, isn’t it? Thank you anyway, Captain Obvious.”
There are things you want to ask him, so many things, important ones like how is heaven like, does it hurt to die; the miscellaneous things about his childhood, when did he learn to ride a bike, his first kiss. You settle on the most important one in the end but he already knows his answer before you can ask, a slow, sad smile you kiss the edges of.
“Love doesn’t end there.”
He drops his head on yours and despite everything, you wake up in the morning, curled on his side of the bed, tearstains on your pillow, half sob lodged in your throat as you claw at the sheets, think of the person that used to share them with you.
Yoochun
Yoochun
Yoochun
It’s the happiest you’ve felt in a long, long time.
[fin]