Minutia

In the little things, in the most mundane objects: a hot cup of coffee, a morning phone call, a crumpled bus ticket

in the simplest and laziest of days spent on the couch, watching sitcoms for hours

in the long stretch of a comfortable silence, punctuated by gazing eyes and grazing skin

in the few millimeters of distance between us when sitting side by side, reading books, lost in different worlds

in the words you do not write, in what you do not say —

I find love.

Dissonance

Amid the steady hum of passing buses rises the dissonance of raised voices. The midnight quiet broken by clashing cacophonies, symphonies of shouts.

I lick the droplets of blood from between the cracks of my lips before twisting my mouth open into a snarl. My words, I wield as weapons: their sole purpose is to inflict pain. The scars I am leaving behind are monuments of every pause, every punctuation, that has drawn blood.

Christmas lights blink cheerfully in the night, the bright colors reflected on your glasses where raindrops cling, mingling with tears I ache to kiss away.

A breath escapes your lips, twisting itself into a solitary word:
Please.


Even as I lapse into silence, my lips tremble, wanting more than anything to forgive. To forget. To say the words which I know would mend your wounds, but would never erase the scars.

The silence has shifted as you close the distance between us. I can taste the salt in your tears, feel your wet lashes crushed against my face, as our entwining lips say nothing, and everything.

Thus I give in like I always do, and always will.