Like Words || Ramshackle

XII : Skipp's Heart and a Dream Catcher

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Our laughter syncopated the strong synchronisation of afternoon snores. For a brief dance of our chests, our thoughts coincided. We were engulfed in the essence of nothing but the pulse of our dancing hearts—swaying in each pump with smooth charisma within the blood flow in our coarse veins. Skipp initiated a striking gaze, aiming to communicate with my eyes without a sound of words.

No syllable, no syllogism, no poetic feet, and not a wisp of accent. It seemed like he told me every possible thing imprisoned in his mind, like witnessing tempests fading beside a lighthouse amidst a sea. On top of the shattered dome, he looked so calm and relieved; and because of that, I mirrored his expression. Soothing and gentle.

The effigy of Skipp is a nuanced view of beauty. He kindles with artistic endeavours. I can see him silently observing me, copyreading my mistakes. It's strange and amusing how much attracted I am. "Quit staring. It's not funny, Skipp."

"Since when was admiring you funny?"

"No idea. Zeroooooo."

"Sorry, you're just too... perfect to be existing."

"Yeah, likewise."

"Stone," he unwrapped his scarf from his neck, fidgeting with it, "I think I'm in love with you."

Never ever stop with the compliments.

"Really now?" Cautiously, I press my northern-kissed thumb against his sun-kissed wrist where his veins pulsate. His visage didn't dare to look away from mine when I slightly deepened the force in my thumb. Leaden nostalgia embraced my wit when fragments of my middle school memories recalled my biology mentor's lecture tackling the circulatory system-she demonstrated to us that this is how to check our heart rate by the navigation of pulses. "I never knew. How amusing, could you expound on that?"

"I'm afraid I'm too lazy."

"Yeah, right."

"But you really are beautiful, Stone."

A gush of laughter blessed me. He leaned against my inviting embrace, head resting on neck. I can feel him feasting in my obnoxious scent-a scent of kneaded cigarettes and addictive alcohol. Although it's not 'much', he sure has a wardrobe of gestures. He wears one every day, with some appearing as a mimicry from mine. "You're so cute."

"Whateveeeeeeer." he scoffed.

...

Not even one minute passes by, he pins me to rock ground. "Ew..." I grunt, "Get off me... ewww, Skipp."

...

It just ended up with me pulling him closer to my chest-my beating heart that's his. Ever since, everything I own now belongs to him too. Níl brón me, tá sé gach rud.

"Hey!" Grá exclaimed as he's now trapped within my locked arms. "Stone, let me go. Stone. It's not funny, Stone."

"Stone! Ahhaha... that fucking tickles, pfft- stop... I can't breathe..."

...

A yawn drowsily exhumed from my lips-giving weight to my somnolence. Suddenly, the playful manners ceased as he carefully got off me. Not a stroke of skin on my hair now. All I can decipher are shallow breaths and hums. "Dear? Are you tired?"

Misty was the weather, so I slowly nodded with slight fog. A sight I was yearning for appeared-his smile, as a hand pulled me up from the dome's roof. He told me that we'd go home. Taking the route infested with an odious smell would be the best option, since the luxurious fine brick-patterned route is by far more odious. In terms of the essence of the environment. The scraps living in those routes are probably familiar with us.