@darling-velocipede group
if you clicked, i'm assuming you do. delightful, and thanks in advance! here's the piece, any criticism would be appreciated. however, it's important to me to maintain the weird, vague style. you aren't supposed to ~really~ know what they're talking about or what's happening, it's more just vibes.
Low clouds paint hill-trails like a ghost story
(but this is a romance)
and they’re making the tops of Pierre’s socks wet
He fidgets a bit as he walks, uncomfortable
unsure if he cares enough to stop and fix it
unsure if he should
In his mind, he flips a coin– a game he finds himself playing a lot lately
he’s been playing it since he stopped crying, took stock of the empty
As if one can really consider what is defined by not-there
The sunrise’s watercolor, like a romance, has been washed away for stone blue; pale grey
the background of the sky when it’s about to rain
(because this is a ghost story)
The air is so damp and so thin
He takes deep breaths, in and out
and imagines his balloon-thin lungs.
The coin says keep walking.
Elowyn is next to him, always in the corner of his vision
If he turns toward her she hangs back, blinks and she sticks around
Hasn’t even complained, which is odd
She lived out loud, and hated the cold.
Her glasses are blurred with fog
He can’t see her eyes, if she has them, but he remembers them
because he always managed to sit across from her
Dark brown, cocoa powder, with orange glints that matched her hair.
They’re at the edge, the top, bellow them houses
pointed roofs and sleeping people and street lamps
He sits down, she follows.
They first kissed under a streetlamp
Pierre, distracted, hadn’t known to close his eyes. He’d looked up, watched the dust-moths flutter
She laughed at him
They’re both quiet, now, and he wonders if she’s remembering too.
He doubts it
They never feigned any magical connection
Never held-hands in the hall-ways
And only twice talked love, both delirious, both so lonely and late at night. Strange words on dry tongues
Today’s no different
Both broken by their own honesty
“I brought you a present.” She always spoke first
“Yeah?”
It’s poorly wrapped, comically so– like she’d torn a paper bag apart, and taped it back together
“Lip balm, huh.” He doesn’t even rip it further, just slips it out through one of the tears.
“Sit up, and I’ll help you put it on.” She plucks it from his hand, leans forward, leans too close
Studies him too carefully. “I’ve always loved my games.”
He leans forward, kisses her like she wanted, without the half weight it could have, hardly a brush
“Stop by my house and get your sweater tomorrow, okay? My mom will appreciate the company.”
“It’s in the top drawer still?”
“Yeah”
There is a waiting beat, a wanting beat, Pierre feels it in that empty, Elowyn
feels nothing at all.
“Will I be okay without you?”
“Do you see another option?”
“What was love supposed to do?”
“I’m glad you learned to like my games.”
“One last time?”
“Nah, you know it’ll hurt too much.”
“Good luck, Elowyn.”
“What does that even mean? You were never good at goodbyes.”
“I suppose not.”
“Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
“You know that doesn’t mean anything either.”
Pierre walks home alone, the sky is clearing
The poem is leaving
He resolves to learn to play the guitar
He resolves to write a song about her
He always wonders what happened to that chapstick
He always wonders what has ever been real at all
Not meaning,
Not breathing,
Though he’ll continue
aright, advice welcome! don't bother being nice i can take it ;)
