lifeeternal13

What’s say that you and I enjoy a little time at this tiny kitchen table? I cut up tomatoes, and you ask me why I use a butter knife. I say, What’s healthiness without a little cholesterol? You smile. I like that smile, especially when we make up something to eat. I ask you, What would you prefer to eat – grocery bags or packing peanuts? The bizarre look you give me is just what this oddball day calls for. Neither. Your response is so cliché. Liven it up! I dislike this monotony. We toss some veggies on the grill; you ask why I involve the tomato In my vegetable stir-fry. Technically, it’s a fruit. I

A pink silk bow clips back her hair, and soft It swings across the sweep of her smooth neck. I am left a perfume that racks a cough From my throat. I am a miserable wreck. In ways, her sweetness makes me sick but I Care more for her smile than my health concerns, And though she never turns her soft brown eyes Toward me, the fever she causes burns. And each cool moment her gaze stays away, I find the lungs in my chest constrict more. She could be the one who keeps pain at bay, Or be a wound herself, an open sore. I guess with no care, symptoms are dreaded. But without her, I would feel more wretched.

I always prefer the women. The delicacy of death in their faces Reminds me of autumn – Not yet forsaking the bright sweetness Of summer for the cool pallor Of winter. Men always look so horrid. The fear they’ve spent their lives Devouring into some semblance of Chivalry and pride stands stark On expressions locked in death – An honesty we abhor. I have never touched a royal head. Until now, of course – She was a queen last week. Today, she is dethroned in many ways. I watched her hair be shorn, and Remember the blade against my own skin. We are not so very different. In death, she is proud still –

His hand slips into mine. There is something beautiful about the way our finger thread together, and I wonder vaguely if we’ll need scissors to cut us apart. Then again, I’m thinking we’re not planning on letting go of each other any time soon. I turn to look at him, and his eyes are peering back at me, bright and full of courage, from under the edge of his big, black umbrella. I tighten my hold on the curved handle of my own, and offer him a smile; if he can look so hopeful and unafraid, I’m going to do my best to do the same. It’s not even raining, but they help us to match the night. Beneath the solid cement on w

The ash from his cigarette was warm as he tapped it off onto the back of my hand, brushing grey across my white skin. I let it remain there because moving at all meant admitting that I was part of this scene, that I couldn't just be a spectator, just a stranger in the audience watching him. His lips pressed so genuinely, so perfectly around the cigarette, like that space at the corner of his mouth where it curved up in an almost-constant unintentional smirk was made specifically for it to fit there. He expelled the smoke with a hum that sounded a lot like defeat or maybe just disinterest, and turned his eyes on me, making it impossible for m

1. This was how life was supposed to be. I was never more sure of anything than I was of that fact. Now, as we stood at what felt like the edge of the world, I knew I'd never ask for anything ever again. This was all I could ever want. He took my hand, and I took hers, and the three of us stood watching the sun color the water in a hazy wonder, beautiful and rich and more important than anything we'd ever stopped to look at before. "What now?" she asked, her fingers tight around mine. I shrugged, squeezing them. "Life." 2. The sky arced over me in a panorama of blue, and I felt like I was witnessing the story of the universe told through

There were times when I would catch myself saying it the most. As your body moved against mine, turning me into a pile of sweatingmoaningdisgusting ecstasy, I caught myself crying it: "I loveyouloveyouloveyou," a mantra to writhe to. I wondered afterwards when it had become so automatic, when I had stopped meaning it. It seemed like so long ago that we first became this body of lust, when you first came to me, that first kiss that turned into that first of everything, that first morning after in which you had said those three words: "I love you," and God, had I been ready to believe them because that meant it all meant something. Sooner or l

"Hey," he whispered, his chin resting on my shoulder. "You awake?" I lifted my arm to stroke his hair, loving the way my fingers tangled in his curls. "I am now," I said sleepily, prying my eyes open. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up." His hand rubbed circles over my hip. I smiled at him, kissing his forehead. "What is it?" "Look," he pointed toward the window. I followed the outline of his arm to the vision of the moon, full and glorious, glowing a soft orange through the slit in the curtains. "Isn't it beautiful?" I looked at him, the way the moonlight made his face look elegant and ethereal. My fingers pressed against his cheek to

The rain plummetted to eath like miniature grenades, leaving me waiting for an explosion, a bit of devastation, a touch of life out in the dark front yard. The sky was that harsh grey that almost looks purple, like the eye shadow some women wear to look sophisticated, or the kind of ash that drifts down after something burns tragically; they were the same color really. The humidity clutched at my lungs, so I kept my mouth open, inhaling deeply the taste of lightning and nostalgia that always left my tongue writhing, me wanting. His fingers tugged gently at the knots in my hair, his toes pushing at the ground so that the porch swing swayed a