BOYS

l. lucas the lucid dream

boys my age had too much pride to admit they were weak, and i wasn't any different than them, but looking back at the way things were between the two of us, only now, do i understand what it was.

(lucas; he was the one i could go to
whenever things got too much for someone
as weak as i was to handle alone.

he was twenty and i was just eighteen
and being with him made me feel like i
was living a dream as my reality;

a dream impossible to wake up from.)

i'd dye his hair different shades every week and he'd help me study for quizzes every couple of evenings, but most of our time was spent kissing in his kitchen, where he'd sit on the black marble and hold me against his chest.

(and i had issues with falling asleep
but sometimes, i'd kiss lucas until i
remembered the need to breathe, and maybe
it was the rushing dizziness, or the
sudden loss of energy that came with,

but i, now, think that it might have just been
the feeling of having arms wrapped around
my chest, anchoring my body as my
soul drifted to someplace far, far away;

and that was confusing because if souls
could float, then why did humans sink to their
deaths yet their dead bodies still floated?)

i'd show up past midnight with tear stains on my cheeks and blood on my knuckles and he never asked me why i had been crying or why i had been bleeding because he could instantly tell that things spiralled down once again.

(and lucas was always just there, like a
figment of my wild imagination,
because how could a man who understood
me so perfectly be real and be mine?

he was real, and he still is, but did i
truly deserve this — deserve having a
lucid dream of long nights and soft kisses
for a life when i was just too messed up?

was i doubting myself or tricking fate?)

and he'd kiss me before letting me in and he'd grab my hand and pull me to the balcony, and he'd inhale from his cigarettes and exhale into my mouth until my lungs felt numb and my mind was distracted from the pain in my knuckles and the vibrations in my head.

("do you really think i could stay alive
long enough for the cancer to kick in?"
him, whenever i made it about him.

"do you really think that death could
stand a chance against you,
a boy made of anger and love and youth?"
him, whenever i made it about me.

but even if anger and youth and love
were immortal, since when were fighters and
lovers and kids like us immune to death?)

and it was lucas; the one who always
let me in, kissed my skin, pushed life inside
my mouth and lungs, and helped me fall asleep,
read, dye his hair, think more, and love harder.
it was lucas, the one i seldom spoke
to with my voice; the one i rarely spoke
to outside our safe space, and weeks would pass
in the blink of an eye, and his name would
still be on my mind, but i'd only call
him up when i needed a place to stay;
when things got too much for someone as weak
as i was to handle alone, but was
it ever about being weak or was
it maybe just about being alone?
either way, it was fine; he was just a
figment of my wild imagination.
lucas was twenty and i was eighteen;
i was angry and loving and youthful,
being with him felt like being in a
dream — a dream i didn't think i would wake
up from so soon.

edited by sarah 💓 thoughts? :0