cinderellainrubbershoes
5: 32 PM. Time is a cruel god. I was standing there, staring blankly at the doodled cities on my Chucks, waiting for your sharp footfalls to echo in the halls. Will you come soon? It felt as if eternities have already passed, but I still wasn't able to glimpse a shadow of your presence. The you-shaped void beside me makes me sore, makes me ache. Will you come soon? It's been forever since I last saw you.
5: 33 PM
The poverty of language hindered him from spilling his heart out, but the way he raked his clumsy fingers through his locks, the blushed pallor that he sported while avoiding my stares, and the way he tried to keep his trembled lips locked with his teeth...all these telltale things needed no words for his secret to bleed through.
I pressed my ears against his chest and heard--felt--there, caged and suffocated, the sound of the beatings of a hummingbird's wings. I traced little heart-shapes on his skin, right on the top of the throbs, wondering if I will still hear its frantic beating when the sun rises tomorrow.
Sometimes she doesn’t know who’s wrong—she or them. It sure feels right, but because she is not in the position to say anything she likes, to defend what she believes, to make any sound from beneath the tape they’ve slapped on her lips, her perspective of things became off-kilter. The blazes of the mirages she’s seeing gnaws at her belly, burning it and everything in it—the butterflies and the crumbling food for thoughts—until they fall to ashes. And she will wait until a phoenix rises from them.
He shook the headphones off his ears when the music's unpalatable tang sank into his tastebuds. Sometimes he wonders why heartbroken people still listen to songs that tell them terrible things about love. Sometimes, he wonders why he still joins their "martyrs" horde. But he muses, maybe that's what real love is. You let your past swing from the tangles of your aching heart and be okay with it...because pain is an important part of the package.
The sun was so outraged today that he sent blistering fingers to squeeze out all the salty rainwater from everyone’s skins. I stooped, imbibed the last drops from my canteen, and let myself be squeezed some more. I was a warm, human raincloud. The heat wave is still rolling.
The crickets' nighttime songs swaddled him in a solemn blanket of atmosphere. On evenings like this, he always liked to lie on the roof and gaze up at the glowing beauty of the moon. But the night's Queen is not full tonight; she sat gingerly on the wisps of ghostly clouds, bending to mimick the shape of the Cheshire Cat's grin. He still loves her glow, though. It's still magical. He crawled on the rust-caked roof and let himself be bathed with the meager magic light emanating from her, his head lolling to an unheard lullaby.
It was supposed to be cold inside the trembling, four-walled container. But it wasn't. A few wisps of his bangs fluttered into the air when he blew at them, when he was trying to think of a way to banish the awkwardness. He stole another glance from the other occupant. Shiny hair, like a raven's unfurled wing. An upturned nose. Curling eyelashes. How can she be so beautiful? His lips formed the word "hi" when suddenly, the button for the 8th floor blinked. He held in a sigh and walked out the lift. He turned around one last time. His heart almost stopped when she gave him a lipsticked smile before the metal doors slid to shield her from his desperate adoration.
The dots on the pavement--angry-red and night-black--connected with each other as they trace the sweet highway toward a pillow of bread and crystal sugar. In a gigantic, dangerous dome where we live in, noticing the intricacies of small life can sometimes open a new window that will remind us that Tiny Things make the world seem livelier.
They resumed the dance of blades under the ersatz guidance of the fluorescents, their hearts leaping at the alternating singsong of their foils and the ragged music of their breaths. Fencing is their favorite pes de deux, because in it, he is hers, and she is his--the world doesn't own them for a few violent minutes. The coldness of their swords' handles usually seep into their skins, but it goes unnoticed, overlapped by their desires to cleave each other's shells of apathy. Their masks. Their perpetual facades.
By the end of every duel, they leave each other soul-naked.
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