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All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
But these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to
It's true...I was made for you
He is different now.
Not in the small, undefinable, immeasurable ways that so often precede the beginning of the end to something that once mattered. A subtle shift in values, or the way a loved one smiles. Perhaps the passions that command their time. Slowly, ever so slowly, sliding from one place, and into the next. Until a pair of eyes meets the other across the expanse of a bed, and your body recoils involuntarily at the sight of a stranger staring back.
Who are you?
They have changed. As have you. And there is no desire to bridge the ever-widening gap in the bed because what is on the other side no longer interests you.
You do not know them anymore.
But somehow? You still know him. And the situation you find yourself in now is utterly unlike any other you have known.
How can someone been so changed, so altered? And remain fundamentally the same? And of course, you wonder selfishly, what does that mean for you? It is impossibly not to think such things, you try and sooth the sharper, crueler angles in your head that respond in anger and distrust. After all, it is more common for the world to be upside down than not here. For it to hurt rather than heal. To be alone, rather than together. The universe truly ending, second by second by second. Each just a little more broken than the one that came before.
So the question returns. If he is different, then are you as well?
For you never felt more alive than when your life was lived in bright contrast to his own. But now part of him is lost, and with it a part of you as well. Without it, the context itself seems lost, making it fruitless to try and understand. But the attempt is there.
He is no longer there to debate the answer with. He took himself away. He took you away. He took them as well, you are sure. But outcome is not understanding, which is what you desperately seek.
And so you return to the bed again. Minds no longer connected, and the words so often not right. You are ripped backwards into your youth, fumbling with touch and taste -- the most base of your senses -- for answers. In the end, there is just a leg, draped against his own. Nowhere else, nothing else. The skin of his calf burning against your own.
Hands are too intimate, and his mouth full of countless memories. Your courage comes in measured waves, but they have not crested that high. Not yet. You are, you imagine, somewhere just before the crash.
Does that make him the shore that you are reaching for? Or the riptide that will pull you back, and back, and back. Heart tumbled and too broken for what matters most. His calf is stubbornly silent on all such matters.
His skin his hot. His breath disturbingly even, the newness of it rubbing against your cheek. Only one conclusion comes to you, though without any understanding from where, or why it appears.
You still love him. That part of the story remains unchanged.
It is your turn not to sleep.
For Relativepromts, and based on RP at Relativespace.
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
But these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to
It's true...I was made for you
He is different now.
Not in the small, undefinable, immeasurable ways that so often precede the beginning of the end to something that once mattered. A subtle shift in values, or the way a loved one smiles. Perhaps the passions that command their time. Slowly, ever so slowly, sliding from one place, and into the next. Until a pair of eyes meets the other across the expanse of a bed, and your body recoils involuntarily at the sight of a stranger staring back.
Who are you?
They have changed. As have you. And there is no desire to bridge the ever-widening gap in the bed because what is on the other side no longer interests you.
You do not know them anymore.
But somehow? You still know him. And the situation you find yourself in now is utterly unlike any other you have known.
How can someone been so changed, so altered? And remain fundamentally the same? And of course, you wonder selfishly, what does that mean for you? It is impossibly not to think such things, you try and sooth the sharper, crueler angles in your head that respond in anger and distrust. After all, it is more common for the world to be upside down than not here. For it to hurt rather than heal. To be alone, rather than together. The universe truly ending, second by second by second. Each just a little more broken than the one that came before.
So the question returns. If he is different, then are you as well?
For you never felt more alive than when your life was lived in bright contrast to his own. But now part of him is lost, and with it a part of you as well. Without it, the context itself seems lost, making it fruitless to try and understand. But the attempt is there.
He is no longer there to debate the answer with. He took himself away. He took you away. He took them as well, you are sure. But outcome is not understanding, which is what you desperately seek.
And so you return to the bed again. Minds no longer connected, and the words so often not right. You are ripped backwards into your youth, fumbling with touch and taste -- the most base of your senses -- for answers. In the end, there is just a leg, draped against his own. Nowhere else, nothing else. The skin of his calf burning against your own.
Hands are too intimate, and his mouth full of countless memories. Your courage comes in measured waves, but they have not crested that high. Not yet. You are, you imagine, somewhere just before the crash.
Does that make him the shore that you are reaching for? Or the riptide that will pull you back, and back, and back. Heart tumbled and too broken for what matters most. His calf is stubbornly silent on all such matters.
His skin his hot. His breath disturbingly even, the newness of it rubbing against your cheek. Only one conclusion comes to you, though without any understanding from where, or why it appears.
You still love him. That part of the story remains unchanged.
It is your turn not to sleep.
For Relativepromts, and based on RP at Relativespace.
