|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
...And the Stars ScreamedI'd long since stopped
against an ocean lacking color
for a glimpse of the light
that glinted off a sharpened knife.
But even then,
although the dust and flame
had passed me by,
and I heard.
Not much had changed
in their fiery song;
I'd avoided the void
for far too long.
I'd gotten by
on solid smoke
and a few scarce sips of water,
inhaled your burning scent
like it was pure oxygen
as the stars screamed
at me to stop,
I always spent
too much time
focusing on things
that could never be mine,
and maybe I should have spent more
on my darlings,
shrieking silently, pointlessly
upon deaf ears
whether they should have grabbed
on loving a girl who doesn't love herselfYou used to tell her that you’d accept the reminders, the dark shades running down and over the hill of her waist, the shadow of her wrist. Far from unlovable, you said. So far.
Grudgingly, you realized that you could not fix her. She was not a dismantled puzzle just waiting for you; she was her own brand of porcelain, one you didn’t know how to mold back together. She wasn’t breathing for you.
The moments of silence between you led to a longer period, those weeks when you went days without talking – and you didn’t know if you were supposed to be proud of her or cry.
Stargazed at each other’s words until the night came when you learned she wanted you to kiss her scars and make love to them as if they were her self. You laughed without humor and said, "I might as well kiss them with the fucking blade then." She said nothing.
When she discovered that you would love her and her body and her past – but wouldn’t trace the lines on her skin
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
if you need help making it through the dayremember:
Keep in Touch!