You had such long fingers:
they lay across my lips as you looked
away, looked at the world we didn’t belong to,
and the grime and the wealth and hate that
we loved to watch.
“Listen,” you said, “listen.”
I felt my shoulderblades embrace the brick wall behind me, and
my bones clung to each ridge. My feet were light.
The alley was dirty, and smelled of survival. Survival was disgusting.
I looked up at you, and you frowned.
“Listen.”
I turned my ear to the street, and you pressed a soft hand to my eyes, satisfied that I'd complied.
Sounds washed across my skin.
I could feel them seep in between your fingers, which were calloused and gentle
against my face. They sang to me, but their voices were
old and ragged and gone grey like the winter;
I could smell the bourbon in them, the radio squawks mumbles of outcast introverts: I could hear the obstinace
in the consistent roll of tires, racing, racing, racing
to that next appointment, the blank stares of the people
who couldn't see the sunset while they looked through their car windows,
too hindered by the glare and the monotonous anticipation of
"What will I make for dinner tonight?"
My face wrinkled and rankled in disappointment, asking myself
"When will they learn? When will they learn to live?"
You brought me back to the dark when your thumb moved against my nose, a movement
so small that you hadn't even noticed yourself making it.
I knew you better than you did.
I could hear your breath, and the
pulse beating against your shirt, and I listened.
I loosened your fingers from my skin with my own hand,
and kissed each tip.
"I can hear it."
Author's Note:
Spoiler! :
Thanks for reading!
-Coral-
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