On The Run [phan]

eight.

AN: The poem in the video tab is very important to me and probably my favorite poem yet. I just really fucking love it so I really would want you to watch it.

Sitting at his table watching the smoke catch around his face and head up into the ceiling, Phil sighed. The book of poems Dan had given him sat next to Phil mockingly. The words that were scrawled inside of it so carefully ventured through his brain and into his body. The language seeped deep into his very core so that all he could think about was how dumb he was to dismiss such a wonderful experience.

Taking a deep drag of his cigarette Phil picked the book up once more and turned to his favorite poem

Moles Don't think About Space Or Small Talk

Reading the whole thing from start to finish devouring each word like a bite of his favorite meal. Swallowing the letters ravishly, savoring the last bit that sticks at the back of his throat.

"and there's nothing to discuss

things to think too much

everything to think too much

i always think too much"

Phil never sickens of the flavor. He can re-read and re-enjoy the course many times each new bite better than the last.

And soon he is crying.

Large droplets full of sadness, heavy and wet. Not the light kind that can be wiped away with a tissue and forgotten but ones that stick heavy to your clothes and stain your cheeks forever. Invisible roots of tears digging their way under pale skin.

Phil lets the tears fall to the ground in large droplets, his cigarette hanging from his two fingers. Phil tries to imagine himself back at that beach that seemed to calm his mind a few days ago but his feet are planted stuck on wooden floors instead of sand.

His heart quickens with every moment passing and he feels himself clawing at his past memories that seem to fight him with such rage and power that Phil feels that he can only surrender. Smashing his cigarette butt into his ash tray Phil falls onto the ground.

His hands desperately scratch the wood, digging away at it as if it were memories. Phil lets out a sob, empty of noise that only his soul can hear. Ears ringing Phil cries out in terror.

"You have ruined everything, don't you know?" The voice called.

Phil knew what he had done but being told by him seemed to make it more real, "Yes I know."

"Why would you do this?" It wasn't yelling but pleading. Asking, hoping there was a reason why all of this was happening and that Phil was innocent. But he wasn't. He was far from.

"I don't know."

The man in front of him dug hands in his hair, "You better give me something better than that. There has to be a good reason you did this. Not just 'i don't know.'"

"I don't know." Phil said more firmly the beginning of the tears that rooted under his skin coming to life.

"Then make something up." The man demanded in a whisper, "Or I will and I think that everyone will like my story better."

Phil woke from his nightmare to find his fingertips coated in blood once again. Blood is vivd to begin with and since his skin was basically white it stuck out like paint.

Standing up calmly Phil knew the worst was over. He knew that the nightmare was temporary and that he needed to continue on with his life until the next moment of darkness.