in the darkest part of the night, you arrive on my doorstep.
the defeat is spread across your face, resting heavy on your shoulders as you silently brush past me.
your anger is dangerous, overflowing out of those stormy eyes, rising out of your control until it's almost got a hold of me.
but I know.
I know how this works. I know how you like to drown the 2AM sadness into a bottle, how sometimes the only thing that can bring you crashing back down from your highs is my arms and a soft bed.
how sometimes, nights like this are all I ever see from you.
so, come.
I have been waiting.
drag yourself off of the couch, away from the glass, away from the hurt and the critics.
come down the hallway with me; where your clothes will drift down softly onto the floor with the pain, and where your body will ease slowly into the warm water, and where finally.
you can rest.
and I will massage the misery out of your muscles, let you sink into my embrace until-
all
is
gone.
----
so, now.
you will lay your head on my shoulder.
breathe in the mango and honey on my skin. breathe out the anxiety and despair.
I promise the Panadol will help. and you must promise me you will try.
it'll all be better in the morning. even if it's only for you to treat this like a pit stop. a refreshment on the side of a highway while you're on your way to bigger, better things that don't include me.
that's okay. I know the bubbles in the bath, the soft pillows and the dreamy kisses are all too easy to fall into.
but you know that tomorrow, when you rise from my clutches and untangle yourself from the grip I've so carefully given you, the morning sky you see when you drink your coffee will only resemble one thing.
my comfort.
----
so, then.
you will be back.
another disappointment pushes you straight back into my bed.
and we start again. the bath, the candles, the massage, the pills.
you will lay in my arms, wishing it didn't have to be me. I will lay with you in my arms, wishing I could keep you forever.
and now. sleep.
YOU ARE READING
doomsday
Short Storyon the seventh day of the sixth month, my world ended. the journey of destruction begins here. "and you come away with a great little story/ of a mess of a dreamer with the nerve to adore you" - t.s.
