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Literature Text
You will fall in love with a boy who overuses the word ‘fate’ but never the word ‘luck’. When he first locks eyes with you outside a packed bar, where the drinks are over-priced and the silence under-rated, he will worry at his lips in a way that will mean you never notice his eyes, his hair, his anything else. This pair of chapped thin lips will ghost towards you, a flash of ivory enamel, a hint of velvet red gums. You will watch them curve and curl into slightly differentiated shapes, a will o’ wisp of words barely audible over the background hum of your friends, buzzing like wasps, on the other side of the door. And you will smell smoke, and didn’t mother tell you where there’s smoke there’s fire. Only then will you notice the cigarette crumbling between long spider fingers, disintegrating into a fine ashen cloud of overcast-january-sky-grey. But he never moves it to his mouth, leaves it to dissipate in slow spiralling streams. And those lips will keep curling and curving, and those fingers will keep holding and holding, and you will not notice anything else.
You will fall in love with a boy who overuses the word ‘destiny’ but never the word ‘chance’. Days later, you are still dreaming about his soft pink tongue, those thin fingers, the smell of cigarettes making you wax poetic for a boy you could not recognise by any other light than the dimmed glow from closed rooms, the half-hidden crescent moon. And when he is already sat in your usual coffee spot, you do not recognise him immediately. There are glasses, a cup raised to that frowning mouth, his hands busy with a book. It is only when he turns to you, already starting to worry at his lip, that you see more pieces of his face. Behind the lenses lie flat brown irises, no depth or specks of other colours. A plain brown lodged between swollen lids, shadowed under heavy dark brows. And you swear that when he whispers to you, perched opposite and trying not to stare at his mouth or his eyes or his fingers, that he breathes out smoke.
You will fall in love with a boy that hangs like the smell of cigarettes in your house. He will be a spectre, a spectator; quiet and sleepless and all eyes and ears. But you get lost in the spaces between his fingers, revel in watching those lips twist and turn. You start to think that there are embers in his lungs, ash up his throat, that he is a near-silent dragon falling for a knight. You are armoured and you are defensive and you do not tell him about other loves or other times, the girls who kissed, the boys who cried, the times you wondered if you were just wandering between lovers, lost and aimless, seducing for a map, flirting for directions. You wonder if the ‘great thing’ you had spent years looking for in yourself, in others, is him bent out of your window, flicking ash unused to the pavement below.
You will fall in love with a boy who will become your tobacco, curled in your white sheets ready to be burned. You have seen him in many lights and many angles, those fingers have tangled with yours and you felt like he was the lighter to your cigarette. You replaced his habit, became the thing he clung to on the cold winter days when life didn’t seem worth much, when taking minutes off his time seemed the smartest option, when he wanted a slow-suicide with a warm touch. He was all smoke and all wild-fire and you were tinder under his palms, always holding and never kissing. He could only hold the cigarettes and he could only hold you. And you spent the nights dreaming of those lips and the lighthouse beacon of his teeth and the carnation pinks of his tongue and you would see only a pair of washed out brown eyes, a cyclical moving mouth, ten ivy-lace fingers with ten short nails. He became your addiction, your nicotine, your heroin. He pulled you off the map entirely, left you in unchartered territory, with no idea if you would find the ‘great thing’ or a pack of wolves or ancient ruins of something better left untouched. You co-existed, co-habited, were each other’s fix. And you let yourself, like his cigarettes, dissipate in slow spiralling streams, unused and un-kissed. And you struck matches to his paper skin, and the embers caught and he blazed like a signal fire, like a beacon, leaving you a cloud of ash, him a pile of charcoal with no secrets to give you, and no directions worth following.
You will fall in love with a boy who overuses the word ‘destiny’ but never the word ‘chance’. Days later, you are still dreaming about his soft pink tongue, those thin fingers, the smell of cigarettes making you wax poetic for a boy you could not recognise by any other light than the dimmed glow from closed rooms, the half-hidden crescent moon. And when he is already sat in your usual coffee spot, you do not recognise him immediately. There are glasses, a cup raised to that frowning mouth, his hands busy with a book. It is only when he turns to you, already starting to worry at his lip, that you see more pieces of his face. Behind the lenses lie flat brown irises, no depth or specks of other colours. A plain brown lodged between swollen lids, shadowed under heavy dark brows. And you swear that when he whispers to you, perched opposite and trying not to stare at his mouth or his eyes or his fingers, that he breathes out smoke.
You will fall in love with a boy that hangs like the smell of cigarettes in your house. He will be a spectre, a spectator; quiet and sleepless and all eyes and ears. But you get lost in the spaces between his fingers, revel in watching those lips twist and turn. You start to think that there are embers in his lungs, ash up his throat, that he is a near-silent dragon falling for a knight. You are armoured and you are defensive and you do not tell him about other loves or other times, the girls who kissed, the boys who cried, the times you wondered if you were just wandering between lovers, lost and aimless, seducing for a map, flirting for directions. You wonder if the ‘great thing’ you had spent years looking for in yourself, in others, is him bent out of your window, flicking ash unused to the pavement below.
You will fall in love with a boy who will become your tobacco, curled in your white sheets ready to be burned. You have seen him in many lights and many angles, those fingers have tangled with yours and you felt like he was the lighter to your cigarette. You replaced his habit, became the thing he clung to on the cold winter days when life didn’t seem worth much, when taking minutes off his time seemed the smartest option, when he wanted a slow-suicide with a warm touch. He was all smoke and all wild-fire and you were tinder under his palms, always holding and never kissing. He could only hold the cigarettes and he could only hold you. And you spent the nights dreaming of those lips and the lighthouse beacon of his teeth and the carnation pinks of his tongue and you would see only a pair of washed out brown eyes, a cyclical moving mouth, ten ivy-lace fingers with ten short nails. He became your addiction, your nicotine, your heroin. He pulled you off the map entirely, left you in unchartered territory, with no idea if you would find the ‘great thing’ or a pack of wolves or ancient ruins of something better left untouched. You co-existed, co-habited, were each other’s fix. And you let yourself, like his cigarettes, dissipate in slow spiralling streams, unused and un-kissed. And you struck matches to his paper skin, and the embers caught and he blazed like a signal fire, like a beacon, leaving you a cloud of ash, him a pile of charcoal with no secrets to give you, and no directions worth following.
Literature
iv.
there is a depth
where
even the lights
of the universe
cannot
reach,
and the darkness cannot
escape.
[my soul lies even deeper still. ]
Literature
Fires
A hundred years ago my grandfather fought monsters in his head. When my grandmother met him, she swore to the heavens to rid him of those monsters. My grandmother lit a match, threw the match into his head, and closed the lid.
But the fire never went out.
Grandfather produced a fiery bunch of generations, those with wicked tongues and wild hair but eyes as blue as the sea. Every child was born with wanderlust and a lust for words. Every adolescent looked like trouble but was really the smartest in the class. All part of the plan, grandfather would s
Literature
the words i never said in the place i never was
I rattled my can of cherry cola and lifted up my right index finger, pointing at him as I nudged the words,
"Ya think this'll get me into hell?"
He smirked like he always does, staring back out at the rest of the world. I nearly toppled over in my swing, rocking back and forth like a child; the playground isn't restricted towards teenagers, so we come here every Thursday afternoon. Throwing my head backwards, I was careful to make sure the lilies and daises in my hair wouldn't flutter out. It took enough effort to get off the swing, who knows how much it would be to get back on again?
(I'm lazy too; there's another excuse for you)
"No, but
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13/3/15 I don't even know what this is, but some loves are smoke in the lungs and some are wild-fires and some are hard to forget and some are impossible not to write about.
© 2015 - 2024 comatose-comet
Comments11
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This was interesting to read. I'm noticing on the 'featured in collections' there's one called 'reread'. Indeed that seems apt here since whilst I could say I guess I know what's happening, I'm by no means certain. Indeed, the in-depth monologue is not full of exposition as it would appear, and that's fascinating.