[darkmist]

I wrote this about a year ago I believe. It was originally a piece of fanwork but I reworked it to be neutral. Constructive criticism much appreciated!


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“Touch me.”

A hissed demand, panting lips, rough hands, sweat beading on collarbones, pounding blood in synch with the bass of the club, swaying hips – they are one of the many erotic shadows taunting in the throbbing black and red. Breathless chuckles tickle the soft hairs at the nape of a neck. Here on floor in the embrace of pulsating sound and shadows, in the black light of hastily shut cubicles with the smell of used condoms and sloppy kisses laughing at you, in the whispers of bed sheets of yet another nameless neon hotel, or dare you say it, home? He doesn’t care, no one cares, they’re almost too far gone. One jerks away, palms pushing away at firm shoulders, one stumbling. Straight imprints of small lines slowly darken on one’s neck.

“Let’s go.”

Car it is.

------

They couldn’t remember when they first started: started this warped association, started looking for each other in the broken reflections of sunlight, started hearing something more in the grind of subway tracks, started curling fingertips in the mist of long-dead stars. Was it the kiss beside the half demolished brick wall of the forgotten factory, under the paint-splattered ladder? The accidental reaching for the same Styrofoam cup of coffee, the meeting of eyes on opposite sides of subway platforms, someone disappearing the moment the train roars through that tenuous connection? Everything is a blur of sounds and dull colours with the occasional shock of vivid splashes of burning eyes, tongues. No one knows the beginning or ending, no one is even sure if the present is even actually there. It’s just the two of them, locked in coincidence, hanging in an elongating drop of water, trying to burn brighter than an eclipse. Leave everyone blind who dares pry into their world.

------

Its atmosphere is quaint, soft oranges and red warming the gentle walls, soft whimsical lighting artfully carving the flat box into slopes and curves. Honey eyes contemplate the mess of scratches on the lined paper in his lap, feet propped up on the small round cherry wood table. Dancing water and hazy strips of sunlight flow from the blue ink of his pen: nature as he remembers his mother cooing into his ear as a child. No rainbows exist in his memory.

He smiles when an elegant hand reaches down, closes his eyes as he feels the curve of the spine before him bending, remembers the wrist flicks and snapping chests the creature before him is capable of. Belongs in.

“On the house.”

Calloused fingertips graze his cheek as hips sway, footsteps muffled as glasses clink, waxed paper bags crinkle, plastic cards are swiped, chairs scrape, voices rise and fall.

He opens his eyes. Rainbows may not have existed for him but he remembers the kaleidoscope he shared with his brother.

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This is it: mirrored walls, no ventilation, a small window with the blinds down but open letting in shutters of light, a faint sour smell of old varnished floors. Deep breaths echo here as he twists and bends, reflects the music in his dilated veins: impressions of what he felt breathed on his stomach mere hours ago. Here the squeak of feet are welcome, here he can flicker between the imposing rules he normally follows to the smallest ink blot, now he can just breathe. He doesn’t know how long he spends in here each time – no one bothers him, even the janitorial staff know to leave this studio alone. When he slows on his final turn, leg descending to centre his balance, he opens his eyes to see a man leaning against the open doorframe, sportcoat folded over crossed arms, eyes smiling. White teeth gleam in answer as a lazy hand runs through sweat-spiked hair. Laughter replaces breathing as the other grimaces at being offered a sweaty palm and the door closes.

---------

Do you think we make too much of a mess for the cleaning staff? is brought up over coffee, eggs and bacon. An answering hum is heard as eyes continue scanning the latest news, black frames complimenting the silver earrings dangling. Eggs are nibbled at as lithe legs curl themselves under their owner, hands tracing invisible patterns on the countertop. Mid-bite, his mouth opens and blue skies over a broken-hearted couple spill from his lips. Eyes pause, and slowly refocus on the wandering notes across from him. When the image pauses over the ring falling into the boy’s hand, his arm snaps out and drags his muse to the room bathed in sunlight, second from the right. The story continues with a smoky voice shading in the features of the characters and bringing depth to the tableaux, soft chords accompanying the scritching of a pen waltzing over textured paper.

--------

Doors slam, voices crash, the floor is drenched in fed up accusations and complaints. Old cuts and bruises are aching again: time and soft promises can only erase so much of the judging gaze of collective opinion. A gap is acknowledged, faces are cooled. Things are reconciled as they always are, what binds them together something stronger than anything either is willing to say out loud. They have separate abodes, separate ties, separate dreams, separate feelings. But they share the same passion for life, for beauty, for each other, for all the things unspoken, things only they two can hear, can see, can smell, can touch, can taste. They can’t let go.

---------

They travel the globe, collect glittering moulds that remind them of the accolades poured on them long after they forget what happened at the pompous red carpet ceremonies. They don’t hide anything but they don’t hang out the window open and scream for attention either. They smile and agree when wide eyes, fake tans, and glossy lips before bulky lenses and inconspicuous microphones demand whether or not they have any permanent relationships, if there is something or someone who represents the driving force behind their success, triggered them to break from their old nine to five lives of flat suits and minimum wage. They say they have a muse, a physical embodiment of the very art every supposed genius has always chased after. They laugh when romanticized philosophies are paraded before them and say there is no difference between dance or music or art. There is only life and how you present it.

-------

The sky has darkened to mild gold and rose, purples and blues slowly bleeding into the melting sunset. Two shadows gaze out, gliding over the shining rectangles straining to prick the sky, balconies with laundry waving gently in the breeze, inhale the darkening greens of plant life dotting the rushing city. One shivers lightly under the chequered blanket tucked firmly around their bodies and the other wraps his arms a little more firmly around the other. Moments like these are few and far between and in the secure silence, thoughts are left to twine lazily with the smoke dancing languidly with the wind. One wonders if what they have will last perhaps not forever but until they are old and grey, drooping together like day-old flowers, side by side. The other contemplates on whether or not it is necessary to voice what it is between them, if manipulating his vocal chords will consolidate or shatter this perfect equilibrium between them.

A soft exhalation and it ends like that – hands simultaneously reach for their twin, lips curling in response, glints of ivory sparkling in the dying sun.

[bn8299]

Hi there, I changed the category of this thread from POETRY to PROSE because what you have there looks more like prose to me. =)

[darkmist]

hi I was just about to change that when i realized right before I fell asleep last night I probably typed in the wrong category XDD. Thanks for changing it for me!

bn: no probs! you're welcome =) =) I really hope you enjoy yourself in the Empire, esp Library!

(cuz it's a known fact that the library is my preciousssssss)

[torafox]

Hm. You write nicely, but sometimes stories with no dialogue wear the reader down. Don't be afraid to use dialogue!!! Keep up the nice work!

[darkmist]

@torafox
thanks for commenting! I'll keep that in mind next time the writing bug bites me ^^ Yeah I was aware that this piece is a bit disjointed - when I wrote this, I just saw fragments of moments, almost as if a movie was all jittery and skipping a lot. I'll try to incorporate dialogue next time!