Away from the lined roads, boxed buildings, and neat rows of cement blocks of cement blocks -- a cradle in a wood that isn't graphed by a man with a map and a hard hat. Away from the corrupt; where the treacherous lie in guided halls and warm corridors, and the saints die in dark alleys and forgotten corners. Away from the lips curled in pretty vengeance, glimmering eyes in a state of inhumanity, and sharp, ruthless laughs.
I will sit on your lap with our feet dangling high above the ground, your arms will wrap around my waist, your chin will rest comfortably on my head, and we will watch the leaves change colors together. I will watch the fleeting kiss of the leaves meet your dirt-flecked toes as we swing back and forth. I will watch the rainwater gather in the pearly gray sky, to lightly trace the curves of your skin. I will watch as your long fingers and warm hands crawl without word into the crevices between mine.
You whisper in my ear that I am too young to be this old, this sad, this aching; and make me laugh through my tears when I simply want to mourn at how cold and dark the world can be.
--
i. My ears are so full of your words that I wake briefly in the night, run my lonely hand lightly across the pillows, fingers searching for the mess of hair and the rough edges of your jaw, but you aren't there. When I am half asleep it as if my soul keeps forgetting that you are not mine yet.
ii. The clothes I wear are so loose, so that others don't notice the traces of your absence mounted on my skin.
iii. In the day I allow my mind to wander with thoughts of you, and catch myself staring intensely at a speck on the floor. A question hangs in the air for a moment too long from the boy(s) that sits across from me: asking me what is making my eyes twinkle so brightly, and the curves of my lips blissfully arrange. All I can do is hide my secret smile by covering it with a dainty sip, and simply say "nothing at all".
iv. I dream of you crashing through me -- so I will no longer have to walk the many miles to close the distance that separates us.
v. In the past, my hand has become sore from being clenched shut so tightly, that I opened it to anyone who wanted to see just how empty it was. Like many television screens showing a movie at a department store.
vi. It aches not to hear your voice or to feel you close to me, but it also ached when I was touching the face of another body that was not yours. When I ran my hands on the shoulders of a boy who was not you. But they leave me once they realize that they have merely rented me from you for the day. They leave angry for all of the ill invested time spent trying to take something that was never theirs.
~C
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