She whispers his name,
a question mark to finish.
His lips part (they need Chapstick);
head nods slightly upright from its resting position,
turns to the right —
where she is.
“Mmmm?”
Brown eyes (barely)
with galaxy pupils
force open; barely;
barely.
His blinks are long and often.
Whilst grass-stained pupils go left
and they meet.
Earth meets moon,
but there’s nothing.
No chemistry.
No feeling.
No connection.
Just physical —
nothing personal.
Meaningless touch.
Meaningless reason.
Meaningless Friday nights wasted
by meaningless,
wasted kids.
“Will we be okay?”
She asks, and she’s worried.
She’s worried about it all.
About the stars;
about the dirt;
about them colliding.
And she’s worried about him.
Genuine.
He’s worried too.
About his chewing gum losing flavour,
about the sidewalk cracks morphing into snakes.
But he’s worried especially about falling from that cliff over there —
oh wait —
it’s a descent from sidewalk to empty street.
Haha.
Never mind.
He stares to her,
but not at her.
He’s watching the lsd.
It’s turning her skin inside out.
And if he felt,
if the drugs hadn’t dissipated every single emotion that ever entered his vacuous chest,
the stare might mean something to them both.
And she’d lean in.
She’d lean in because she’d feel the emotion he felt,
and she’d return it.
And she’d kiss him
even if he didn’t kiss back.
Intoxicated kiss:
Yet intimate.
She never asked for a second chance.
Only a first one.
The strain that kept his head in position left.
His head fell backward again to hit the stone his back’s against.
The pain erupted into laughter,
and he choked out a very
gurgled,
blissful,
angelic,
“Fuckinnnng a-okay.”
© 08 July, 2013
