we are drenched in our silence
we are drenched in our silence
yunho/jaejoong
g; 270w.
I want to ask him: am I the ocean?
Are you drowning in everything
I don't say when I'm awake?
- Heart Apnea, Sierra DeMulder
After a while, you learn how to speak without words and with motions, gestures and expressions instead; visual overtaking audio. The hardest parts are opening your mouth and hearing no sounds escape from it, and seeing the brief flash of disappointment on his face. You know to look the other way when this happens.
You lock your entire discography in the store room because you can't look at it without feeling the familiar crush of defeat: a painful reminder of greatness achieved and lost. Once, an old song of yours was played on the radio in the supermarket and you broke down in the middle of aisle number eight, surrounded by cardboard boxes, glass bottles and tin cans. He pretended not to notice as he picked out cereal and soy sauce. Eventually you stop listening to music and the car rides turn silent.
He holds you the way one holds something slipping. When you sleep, he wraps himself so tightly around you that you almost suffocate. Not from the constriction of your breathing mechanism, but from the weight of the things unspoken between you and him. "I can't bear to lose any more of you," he mumbles in his sleep. You almost reply before you realise that you have lost the ability to.
He has developed a habit of pressing his ear to the left side of your chest so that he can listen to your heartbeats: the only sounds that reverberate from your body now. "I love you, I love you still," he says. ("Let me fix you.")
"You can't fix what was never whole," you do not say.
yunho/jaejoong
g; 270w.
I want to ask him: am I the ocean?
Are you drowning in everything
I don't say when I'm awake?
- Heart Apnea, Sierra DeMulder
After a while, you learn how to speak without words and with motions, gestures and expressions instead; visual overtaking audio. The hardest parts are opening your mouth and hearing no sounds escape from it, and seeing the brief flash of disappointment on his face. You know to look the other way when this happens.
You lock your entire discography in the store room because you can't look at it without feeling the familiar crush of defeat: a painful reminder of greatness achieved and lost. Once, an old song of yours was played on the radio in the supermarket and you broke down in the middle of aisle number eight, surrounded by cardboard boxes, glass bottles and tin cans. He pretended not to notice as he picked out cereal and soy sauce. Eventually you stop listening to music and the car rides turn silent.
He holds you the way one holds something slipping. When you sleep, he wraps himself so tightly around you that you almost suffocate. Not from the constriction of your breathing mechanism, but from the weight of the things unspoken between you and him. "I can't bear to lose any more of you," he mumbles in his sleep. You almost reply before you realise that you have lost the ability to.
He has developed a habit of pressing his ear to the left side of your chest so that he can listen to your heartbeats: the only sounds that reverberate from your body now. "I love you, I love you still," he says. ("Let me fix you.")
"You can't fix what was never whole," you do not say.