he was born with the same blue eyes

19 Aug

Listening to CocoRosie, I am digging their stuff a lot more than I thought I would. The nostalgic effects of hearing Werewolf swirling its hesitant way into my ears are kind of screwing my thoughts up and turning them to mush, wavering and curling to illegible scribbles of things I felt–
I love their lyrics. Seriously, I haven’t heard a single sentiment I didn’t like. They need to compile their poetry and publish it somewhere: I would buy it, read it. I’m sure I wouldn’t be alone.
I suppose now, while the memories are fresh, is the best time to come clean about Guillame.
I don’t think I loved him, that’s for sure. I felt something strong for him, but I can’t figure out what it might’ve been: a deep friendship? Lust? Anger and jealousy?
Well, whatever it may have been, he set the tinder ablaze and created something he didn’t know how to control. Guillame was used to being able to control people through his words, and he outlined the technique for me near the final days: how he enjoyed it, it was like chess-
I told him I was terrible at chess and he laughed.

But I’m skirting it again. Let me come back to the reason: the first night he had me put on his jacket for no apparent reason, and I asked “why?,” puzzled; he only replied “just, could you?,” so I shrugged to the voices in my chest protesting and slid the fabric over my arms, zipping the silver tab up over myself, encasing. Warm and suddenly sleepy, we talked with the others until the curfew, when I took the jacket up to my dorm and draped it gently over a chair.
The second day I gave it back and he looked at me with a question in his eyes I couldn’t understand.
That night, lying/sitting on the bottom bunk (my head ducked because the bunk above was far too low for any neckroom) watching his videos that he’d made, laughing and offering ancedotes that invariably fell flat (I am bad at telling stories but significantly better at writing them), I realized our hips were touching, shoulders too– and how warm–
the third night it all went to hell. well, it didn’t seem as such from the start, but I look back and pinpoint this moment (or series of moments) as the start of the things that broke me down a bit by bit. But I can’t change it. It’s the way the moment was structured, and so it goes:
Three people talking on the bottom bunk, Guillame and I on the top, lying/sitting with our legs hanging over the edge of the bed, me trying not to get my feet in the way of the conversation downstairs.
We are listening to music. Andrew Bird, to be specific (I only remember him, and CocoRosie, but no one else): I am being lulled into a deep calm by the violins and decide to crack Guillame’s knuckles for him. I do so, him smiling and almost laughing, and then our wrists twist around each others’ and we lay our hands between us on the bed.
A moment passes. Tense. You can feel it in the air.
I gently, so carefully, decide to strain or break that tension and cup his hand in mine.
Another moment passes. Sparks begin to slowly drip down my spine, molasses.
He slowly opens his fingers, moving my hand, and threads them between mine: the webbing of our hands touch and we cross our thumbs over each others’.
The sparks fly like bats from hell.
A few moments pass before he slowly separates our hands, then runs his fingertips down my palm, feeling every line and scar and callous, memorizing the hills and valleys of my knuckles, turning my rings and touching the hard tips of my fingers, worn from guitar strings and stained from that afternoon’s art class. He stops, waits, and I carefully run my thumb over his, feeling the delicate bones of the back of his hand: pianist’s hands, I remind myself, and they are: big, slender, flexible. His palm is soft and unmarred. His fingertips are like velvet and I wonder how he’d ever take to playing a stringed instrument, marring the softness and creating something new, maybe specialized, out of his digits.
Then another moment passes and my thoughts swirl on.
We clasp hands again, thumbs gently rubbing against each other, CocoRosie’s hesitant poetry poking and prodding at strange parts of my conciousness, creating momentary poetry that vanishes in a blink.

We sit there for a while. I couldn’t tell you how long.
Curfew comes and I wearily, unwillingly extract myself, but I look at his eyes and he seems to be saying “je sais, je sais” so I take it as I see it and leave.

Two days later in the Chapel underneath the winter palace he says “I don’t feel the same way, I’m sorry,”
and there is utter silence for a few minutes as my mind searches for the words that I had thought I had, forgets them, slips them around, and eventually makes do with an “that’s okay, I understand,” suprisingly without a cracked voice or something else that would give away how I have my heart deeply embedded somewhere around my stomach and sinking quickly.
He proceeds to outline all the reasons and I want to shut him up, say “you don’t need to prove your feelings, I don’t care,” but I sit and wait until he’s finished before I take a breath (it shudders–there–) and try to explain the long and ridiculous battle I’d had with this foe called requited love, and he listens silently until I’m done.
Now I’m sniffling. He says “you can talk to me about whatever you want, I’m sorry–”
I wish he would stop apologising, we’ve got that sorted already and I wouldn’t mind if he’d just get the fuck away from me.

He doesn’t.
We go up to get food and I wipe my eyes on my sleeves and paste on a smile, hoping no one will notice the crack in my façade.

Then a week later I met The Poet and talked for three hours and I realized that the world hadn’t quite ended but just taken a breather.

That’s all I’ve got for now.
Later? Maybe.

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