Even after all this time it is still so difficult to consolidate my feelings. Distance has been my friend for the last month even though I treated it like an enemy for many months before. I hope it is over now. The record has been taken off repeat but people are still asking for it to be played. I once loved the feeling but now it drives me to madness and I am tired in every sense.
Pennies are rather like humans. They are all unique. All made at different times and all made equally. However, over time each one travels the world on it’s own journey. Through that journey they might be damaged or marked. Then, some others will sit inside a money box for years getting dirty and old.
When we look at pennies we favour the shiny, clean items. We do not wonder how or why that slightly older looking penny obtained scratches on its once clean copper skin. No. We have no interest for those that possess personality. We simply look for the most “airbrushed”.
We don’t just discriminate against age but also colour. The darker coins are dirty and ones are often avoided, even though they were all created equally with the same purpose.
So no matter the colour, age or quality of your penny always remember that those pennies add up to the same value whether they’re shiny or not. One day that little penny at the bottom of your purse could help buy you a meal or phone your family. You might need that person so don’t ignore them for trivial reasons.
All I can think about is how I have lost you. Again. I convince myself it will be different each time but here I am listening to your favourite music while you peacefully sleep but, this time, in your own bed. You’ve left this small, painful dent on my skin. Rather like the imprint your body would leave on my mattress in the morning as I would watch you escape out of my window and I would inhale the last of your fragrance between the cotton sheets. And as you climbed down the side of my house; you climbed into my head and refused to leave for days. Until one day you left me, so undisturbingly, that the pain of your lost presence was only recognised days later.
If I peel my lips I’m thinking about you. The sore sting of raw flesh reminds me of the pain you have caused. I am the metallic blood dripping off my cold, whipped lips.
Today is just another day where I haven’t told you I love you. My calendar is now based on how many days it has been since you kissed me. I keep convincing myself that these fantasies are normal and my constant need for contact is sane. It is far from it. I am living you and it is unhealthy.
It is strange how everyone is aware of my desire for you yet, you, the very person my feelings concern, are oblivious.
I keep thinking about how your fingerprints would fit mine perfectly. I keep thinking about your lips and tongue in that moment and how everything was harmonious. I keep thinking about how my own insecurities ruined what we could have become. I keep thinking about how I talk too much about you to my friends. I keep thinking about you warming my blue body up in the early hours of the morning. I keep thinking about where we could be by now. I keep thinking about how we could lie on your bed and listen to music. I keep thinking about the peace you would bring me. I keep thinking about how poison would give me the confidence to tell you my thoughts. I keep thinking about how you like her more. I keep thinking and maybe I should stop. Stop everything.
I let the taste linger in my mouth a little.
You barely spare a word.
This will remind me of you every time.
You burn my throat with dismissal.
How impressive is self-destruction?
My headache disappears.
You held my hand and we walked through the clouds of your mind.
You were so unaware of your sweaty palms holding my tingling fingers.
You left breath as silky as snowflakes on my burning skin.
You indulged in my eyes and I inhaled your presence.
You were so comfortably uncomfortable with your blemishes.
Today, I caught him staring.
I gripped the bus pole as the vehicle jolted and my eyes sought for his.
The blaring traffic outside was obvious
but his glare felt like a silent galaxy that I could float in.
I danced on his sweet lips and slept in his golden hair.
He orbited my brain and whispered lust all in one stare.
As he spoke, his voice echoed through my bones.
I longed for a stranger once again.
Today, I caught him staring.
Recently I have felt so vulnerable and detached.
I am so distant. I am so cold.
How can I be full of such paradoxes?
How can I hate people,
Just as much as I love them?
They scream the song in the distance. Sounds of slurred voices and birthday wishes mixed with crashing bottles and bloodshot eyes. The muffled chants resemble somewhat a pack of animals in the wild threatening their prey. In this case they are a herd of unaware tribal humans in a suburban town robbing neighbours of their peace. One must thrive while one must suffer. I pity the elderly inhabitants on my street. A thought for the lonely. A thought for the restless. However, I hope that nobody spares a thought for me as I rather enjoy the screech of the infamous London youth night life. The rough chorus of drunks begins to fade and I continue to flick through my book of Nineteenth Century Short Stories. All of a sudden; left alone in the melancholy of my own thoughts.
I was lying in the middle of the road. I was supposed to just put the rubbish out but I could not stop there. I got this rush of adrenaline. I wanted to run fast. Away from everything. At first I began to but I stopped at the end of my road. The looming street lights above me eerily craned their metal necks in my direction. The pale yellow light judged me and my feet came to a halt. I jogged my way up the winding road again eager to ensure than no one had seen me at this dark hour. I thought about books. Fictional romanticism. The beautiful peace of lying the middle of the road and closing your eyes. I followed the manual but there was nothing particularly eventful about the situation. I felt dazed. As if time was slowing around me. The cold, grainy tarmac under my shirt soon hit reality and I rose feeling as lonely as ever.
Who are you in the early hours of the morning? When stubborn reality wont let go of the hormones in your head. The weight of your eyelids are almost unnoticeable until a blink lasts longer than a second and you feel dazed in a black atmosphere. Why do we not conscientiously question our daily unconsciousness after the sun sinks. We accept without thought. Our inability to seek will poison mankind. Curiosity keeps youth. Vanity thrives in damp eras such as this. The exterior may be varnished with brown liquid the media insists is essential to “get that tan look for summer”. Underneath the chemicals lie soggy skin full of insecurity coating impressionable blood shaking through our veins. Promise me that you do not succumb to these social standards and not one inch of you mind has delved into the greener grass. You lie. You laugh. You live. All temporary behaviour but there is one common denominator. You loathe.
Why is it that we do not talk to people on public transport. Eye contact makes you swallow and dart your eyes away and hope to never look at the person again. What is it that makes two people look at each other simultaneously on a full carriage of 30+ people. Coincidence? Why do i look at people and try to estimate their lives even though i have an easy opportunity to just ask them how their day was. Are we all too tired? Are we too self-absorbed? Some of us listen to music. Some of us sleep. Some of us stare. Then if somebody falls out of line and maybe strikes up a conversation or sings a little song they are frowned upon or feared. There is no meaning to this.