umizi
Somewhere on the cusp of reality and fantasy is another person whom I love with all my heart.
Sure, I accept that he -- or she -- or they -- are imaginary, but it doesn't stop them from loving them any more. I can feel the softness of their body, the warmth of their skin, the affection. I don't know if it's because I'm longing for real connection or if it's because I like the idea of living in fantasy.
Each new lover is like taking a wet cloth and wiping down a blank slate.
They start out smooth, pristine -- cold, yes, but so beautiful that it feels just so right to wipe your hand down their expanse, their flat planes.
But then they get mottled, marked, stained with color or with blood or with whatever you like. Because that's exactly when you need to pick up the cloth and start anew.
Gold thread, silver thread, she weaves the stars through the sky and leaves midnight silk hovering in thin air.
She is the goddess that breathes words from her frosted lips and he is the mortal that stands on the debased floor and looks up, always worshipping and always devoted.
Their fates weave together like two star crossed lovers, but it's different because she has never loved him and he never will stop doing so.
Together forever, we interlock hands and feel our hearts beating together.
Together, we're the unstoppable duo of the playground.
Together, we hate each other but we really do make a good team.
Together, we lay in the grass and watch the clouds dance by.
Together, there are so many pairs of us.
They been following a presence, not even a true physical form, for so long.
She thinks she's gone blind in this darkness. It doesn't really matter, since there really was nothing worth seeing in this place.
She can feel the chill of terror, the sweetly false beckons of siren-like music, but it all doesn't matter to her anymore.
There really was nothing to see here.
They were the kings and queens of the school hierarchy.
The ones with the high top sneakers and the low cut tops.
The ones that had their hair perfectly curled and their skateboards lined up in a locker.
The "cool kids."
Everybody looked at them with some sort of expression. Hatred, jealousy, admiration, fear.
It was a bit of a trivial thing, popularity.
It's always slippery, almost like it's locked, but if one has a firm grasp on it and yanks with all their might, the door slides open.
It's a quiet, mahogany filled office, almost with the slightest bit of magical charm. There are clocks everywhere - grandfather clocks, mostly, and they ring every hour.
There are also gears, spinning endlessly, the clockwork tower.
All up and down his arm - like a map, marking battle scars, tears lost, fights won.
She relished that worn and torn beauty.
He hated it.
But she loved it anyways, gently caressing the wounds until she cried herself (and him, admittedly) to sleep.
In some sort of sad love story.
She stood next to him, smiling, proud.
He never looked at her, but took every single word of hers in stride. She never got any thanks, nor did she get any compensation.
But she was just happy enough seeing him smile and be successful.
Of course, until that day when he came to her, asking about a beautiful girl.
What kind of adviser would she be if she betrayed her own heart?
Here and there, there were questions, criticisms, and worse of all, other people's opinions flying everywhere in the conference room.
"Shut it!" The captain yelled, slamming his fist on the table. Everybody fell silent.
"We will not be making any comments, insults, or suggestive suggestions in this room as long as I am here!"
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writing since 2011 · 35 entries · 35 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Izumi showed up.
9longest streak
35days written
0.1entries / week
the words Izumi reaches for
onesschoolrememberroomwordforgetcoursecitybeautifulcoveredsoundquietideamemoriesbackpackworn