cnoveno
it starts out like this:
for every hand held underneath tabletops, he's a chase in the frozen food aisle with kisses as consolation prize. for every peck stolen underneath sheet covers, he's a warm grip on your shoulder when he introduces you to his friends as his girlfriend, smiling not at them but at you, as though the introduction wasn't made for their benefit at all. for every murmur buried into the pocket of his neck, he's all three letter words and the gusto that comes with admission. he's all the feelings left unsaid.
it ends like this:
his hand stretches over the doorknob, pausing for a moment. in another time you'd think this was hesitance, but you know better. he turns, eyes tucked-tail and resigned. "you never once told me you loved me, you know? not once."
there are days when fumbling around in the darkness isn't all it's cracked up to be. fingertips feel out for edges, for sharp points, for shapes when eyes keep silent on everything else. there are days when you're not reaching out. there are days when the farthest your hands go are the slope of your own cheek, of your own mouth, feeling for the tell-tale curve. there are days when your hands don't move at all.
the two of them laid side by side in his twin bed. the light splintered through the cracks in his window, illuminating what it could of his face, of hers, of the smiles they shared between them when mouths met. she thinks, this is what electricity feels like. she thinks, this is what nerves feel like when they've grown. she thinks, oh god, fucking breathe.
he was over her, for the most part.
(he'd say "for the most part" with the shakiest breath, like the words themselves didn't believe their existence when they'd sauntered their way out his mouth. like he himself didn't shake when he'd see pieces of her lying where they'd laid before - a dress, a sock, a dogeared book from their summers tucked into each others' bookshelves.)
today it was an earring.
i've spent years covering my tracks - pulling on veils, layers of clothes, jackets and cotton and wool of all sorts - in hopes of building a wall thick enough to hide myself in. no one sees me if i can't see them. but a simple shove and you'd see all i've tried not to.
writing since 2014 · 5 entries · 5 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means tchaikovsky showed up.
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the words tchaikovsky reaches for
wordsmouthlaidtuckedeyeshandshandunderneathspentcoveringtrackspullingveilslayersclothesjackets