Tuesday, February 2, 2010

I'll fall right in to keep you out

"I know, what I know.
I know,
this last time around,
I'll hear it in my head real low,
turn into,
the only thing you ever know."

Turn Into :: Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Been five days since he's walked past the newsstand, choosing instead to travel half a block out of the way to avoid them, keeping his head bent low and hands tucked deep into pockets; there will be stories, he knows, mis-spelled accounts and accusations. They will drum up the vitriol spillings from that night, the scratches down his arms, her screams that echoed down the alley; he’d seen her, though, the folded paper passing between, tucked quickly in her bag. She’d stood on her toes, balancing, eyes narrow and strangely focused, denying and swearing over and over; no no no no no.

She had felt so small in the crook of his arm, almost breakable, nights when he’d bury his face into all that barely-there skin, toying with imaginary strength. The space of this too-big bed grows exponentially now, widening as he lies awake, lips going dry, the buzz of hours ticking by; squeeze your eyes shut and block the sound, scare it down.

Could reckon them songs, just notes trickling up and down the ladder-steps of his spine, slightly curving as they reach the base of his neck; its there where the pull lives, the sharp deep drag of need.

She hid things from him, keys to unlock lost digits, scribbled postcards sent from the other side of the world, from him, all those between-the-line apologies; he watched as her smile turned snide and cunning, full of knowing, making the tops of his hands itch and bleed. Wasn't meant to be this way. Never, never.

Can make it round this last corner, he knows the way, could find it with eyes closed, even with all this shaking, count the steps to his door; only three flights to climb, then maybe a coaxed cuppa tea, a word of kindness, a smaller space to grasp at wearied sleep.

He'd gladly return to that wedge between the wall and those intersecting angles of elbows and knees, the old familiar game of push away, dream-soft undercurrents of nothings, and everythings. Knows the spells to break this clanging, he does, those mumbled whispers that shift thoughts and turn the tides; and he needs him now, more than any rolled up treasure map, more than this fortune hold of take-this-and-forget.

On the other side of this door he can drop to his knees, hold his hands open, palms spread, showing all the tales that stain the tips of each finger.

Please open the door now, it's all closing, and I can’t make chase anymore. I need to turn into something new.

No comments:

Post a Comment