Gravely the thrum of that beat will pierce something deep, deeper within. Padding, pressing hard against steel grin. Magnetic din. Rust covered everything. The empty thrill, it seeks next to that other, the other one. You know the one who considers choice. Only it is. Theirs to choose. Today. Unlike any other.
You had a dream that felt more like a prophecy. A future you know but seem unable to speak.
The silent bump and the gentle gurn between this and that, entices, satisfies, navigates, disorients, magnifies alone. Bursting hard against roof of mouth. Inside of ear drum shreds making sense of just a tiny section of whatever this feeling is. When did it disappear? That shift? When did the idea we had of a world lived together, our idea, when did we really stop? Actually stop, in panic. I remember that ghostly night, we hadn't been getting on. I was tired. Tired of the ups and downs, endless in their making.
'I was seeing someone I wasn't in love with.'
Knowing full well.
I want to write an ode, I want to write an ode to, a lover. Or a poem about an affair. Oh broken thing...it will begin. Waxing lyrically about the distortion of time divided since we were coiled in one another's smoky arms. Blackened nostrils and tarred up breath. The night cloak a dagger in my back, whenever I think about all of that, all of that time I spent trying to find you. While you wanted nothing but something other. The pedestal well and truly tipped. Over. I will never be that.
I began to believe voices in my head
That I was a, a freak, that I am broken
That there is something wrong with me
That I will never be loveable (Burial)
We were going to, but I wasn't sure if you were ready. I wasn't sure if you were ready and I wasn't or if maybe within the push and pull I knew and you did too. So we'll be on the same page, or we leave the page and move on. When I come back to you, will that cigarette taste as delicious? Six bottles and I bought a seventh. If only for a moment. A moment to know I can achieve free with you inside me—mind altered everything.
When I wander through your grooves what panic will come loose, will night tyres find those routes as easily as they used to? The crescendo of that bass as it ripples and raises me in the way it used to? And I'm scared, I am. Afraid to feel you. Afraid to feel your body against mine, the ghosts of all your anger, voices raised, intoxicating waves and all your pain, I would soak up anything to make you feel better again. Hoping to help but in hoping failing at everything. To be vulnerable with you, too unbearable a thought. And so I am here but not really. I am here but not really.
Apocalyptic this feeling of tension that drives its hard stone between us. I saw your Hinge profile.
And I wonder on repeat. Do I make you happy?
Sometimes I think you'll just stop texting me back and then I think, how will I feel about that? How will I feel without having to not be here or maybe not here, or maybe here, waiting? That I am doing things that catch me out. Maybe you will say the things you know or want to know to another but not to me.
Oh concrete jungle...it might start, or...high-rise fever! I cycle through these streets where I was once a believer. A belief in true love. Because I know. Or, I thought I knew how to hold you, I knew how to beat the rhythm of your indecision against mine. Thinking, hoping in vain that we could thrive together.