yaineyman
before they sleep at night, tales of forever hang around the room as they both throw words at each other of what happened that day. tales of grumpy old professors, tales of the kind laundry lady, tales of white pasta and brewed coffee over rainy mornings. before they sleep, each wish for a prayer, that each of their tales will someday merge together.
He begrudgingly turns the stirring wheel to the all-too familiar road that he's been coming back to for three weeks now. Three weeks of shattered grunts, pleading touches and rumpled sheets. Three weeks of attention-seeking bruises on his collarbones, unkempt and disheveled hair after being all over each other all night, and weighty thoughts of either "hey why not wake him up with butterfly kisses and then ask him out for breakfast" or "better find my clothes fast and leave before he wakes up and ask me out for breakfast because then i would gladly accept". Three weeks of only satisfying both their greedy wants, and three weeks of yet throwing doubts at each other.
The loud cheers eliciting from behind closed doors make him shiver in the most painful and enticing way. This is it. This is what he's been practicing for six months. Going home at 10 in the evening, drenched in sweat and passion, clinging hi mud-and-grass-filled studs in one hand, and his bag stuffed with other disgusting clothes in the other.
Despite all the excruciating pain they have gone through for months. Despite all the tiring hours at the dance studio that never seem to end. Despite all the stabs, the "do-better!!"'s, the countless doubts and hesitations. Despite the fact that not one thing is even certain, not even the path he's about to take. He still does not forget to breath.
Together is such a cliche. But heck, so is 'you' and 'i'. So is forever. But who cares about cliches when all that's involved is L-O-V-E?
He has been avoiding her. Trying to dodge when they bump into each other. Pretending not to feel the glares upon every piece of his being. But he's not blind. Nor is he feeling numb. He's simply doing good at what he does best: closing all the doors and just going blind, deaf and mute.
He likes it fried; I like it boiled. He likes it scrambled; I like it sunny-side upped. He likes it with catsup; I like it with salt. But who cares about eggs when mornings are spent with you?
He tried to get up from the floor, thinking, "Hey, maybe I am overdoing stuff." But of course he neglects the thought. Because countless, "Try harder," "Do better," "Hey you miss the timing," will always remind him that it's never enough.
I've always preferred towering trees over stressful towers. At least the trees provide me shade.
Air. When was the last time he actually breathed? Not that he choose not to. It's just becoming too much of a ritual. Suffocating. Binding. But yet so addicting?
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