Under the Bridge

chapter sixty two-"i am so in love with desparation"

O L I V I A 

HE SITS ACROSS FROM ME ON THE COUCH, the acoustic guitar in his lap, a thin pick in his hands, and a nervous smile on his lips. Liam is confident regarding his looks and opinions, but when it comes to music, he's always seemed to be self concious about it. It's a window to his soul, the real him underneath all of the nonchalance and arrogance. 

"I'm not a poet, you know," he mutters, plucking the strings to see if they're in tune--they are, but he's messing with them anyway. He takes the kapo on and off, stalling for time as he shakes off his nerves. I almost tell him not to play, but I feel like that will just motivate him to go further. 

"Yeah, you are," I laugh. "I've heard your lyrics. You're brilliant." 

He shrugs. "You can tell me if you hate it, you'll be the first person to have heard any of it, so I might just be groupthinking myself." 

I kick his knee with my foot to knock some sense into him. He's changed into shorts, which doesn't make sense to me because it's freezing in his basement. His grey shirt still fits nicely on his torso, loose in some places but tight where it counts, showing off his broad shoulders and muscular figure. His hair, which has grown past his ears in messy waves at this point, moves with him. I almost tell him he should consider pulling it back into a man bun or something, but then I realize he'd rather die. 

Finally, he stops stalling and takes off the kapo. "It doesn't have a name yet, but uh, this is it," Liam says, beginning to slowly pluck the strings in an intricate order, which sounds much more brilliant than what I could come up with. 

"A Renissanice painting hangs, 

up above the stairs in a locked up cage. 

The door stays shut, one visitor a year. 

The office is empty except for here. 

Ivory skin and soft white edges,

speckles on your face are divine intervention.

you're a masterpiece--you belong in a museum. 

The Louve instead of the office mausoleum." 

He crescendos his voice, singing in his signature raspy tone that makes me melt in my seat. I can't help but feel both mellow and warm in the soft melody, my eyes finding his as he sings--no, performs, passionatley.

"This verse needs work," he warns, meeting my gaze for a second as he begins to play the intricate chords. "Just a warning." 

I smile and wait for him to go on.  

"When it's night and we're asleep, 

I wonder, 'how did we meet?'

When your fingers run through my hair,

I can't help but kiss you then and there. 

Tell me all your worries darling,

tell me I'm not crazy, even if you're lying. 

Brush your lips against mine lovely,

Soft pale curves from the lord above me."

He brings his eyes back down to the guitar, playing the same complex pattern of plucked strings as the introduction, but a few notes shorter and a lot more condensed. 

"I am so in love with desparation,

thinking about you on every damn occasion.

I find myself sitting on your bedroom floor,