Broken strings & Pretty things

The world, seen through a young girl's eyes.

Archive for the tag “relationships”

Summer.

Although the months of June and July were overcast and grey, it didn’t matter in the slightest. His presence was enough sunshine to burn through London’s hazy skyline. With him, life became a perpetual summer: the days were long and tasted sweet. Life was fanciful, and brilliant, and every moment could have been projected from a scriptwriter’s imagination.

Stitches.

And slowly, I started to miss him the tiny spaces that you just can’t get to. I missed him in the gap between moments. He stopped being a missing lung or a haunted street; instead, it had felt like something had been unstitched. His delicate weaves in my skin- his tender pulls and knots- were teased out, irreversibly and slowly. Each pulling thread was yet another wave in that ocean which kept us so far apart; the very ocean that continues to keep us in the fixed categories of ‘here’ and ‘there’.

It wasn’t that I was becoming unstitched myself, because I was still fully intact. I was still a whole. Losing him was a sort of numbing, draining, process. He was not an organ, preventing me from functioning, but he was vibrance. Things didn’t break without him. Things kept going, endlessly, tiresomely. I was stripped of colour, much like the northern sky that once streaked above us.

I missed him in sepia-toned sadness. Like our English summer, he was ephemeral and enchanting. But he flew away and I was left in a concrete jungle filled with hard faces and fake personalities. He stretched his wings whilst I had mine clipped. He found his paradise and I found my home in a cage.

I missed him lost on the underground, longing for his silent words of comfort and embraces sent along telephone wires. Only his voice could heal my woulds, and without it I was left cut and weeping. And I would call for him, desperately, endlessly, but he would never quite hear those words.

I stopped missing him at the dead of night, and started missing him at 3pm whilst having coffee with a half-beautiful man. I missed his curved teeth and curved speech. People here always asked questions, and I desperately missed his answers.

Eventually, I missed him when I realised that I  had forgotten him. I missed him on that Sunday when neither of us remembered to call. I missed him when I realised our faces stained other people’s photographs, but not each other’s.

I missed him when I realised that he was coming home this month.

(image via tumblr)

February.

He was my weekday delight and my Sunday torment. He was evenings sprayed with starlight and a flooded tube journey. He was burning bright blue, and he hurt me every time, even when it made me happy. He was an addiction that I never intended to pick up. He crawled slowly into my veins, seeping, corroding, until I couldn’t get enough.

But I couldn’t get away, because I was lonely and he was enchanting and he was the only pair of lips in a faceless city which would whisper my name.

(image credit photosbyajm.tumblr.com )

Enough.

This glimmer is warm enough to heat my bones through these cold winter days. I would happily lay here and touch fingertips and feel nothing more than the warm whistle of air pass through his lips. Cradled in arms with dreamy-glazed eyes, I will continue to search the delicateness of his features. This soft gap between our bodies: that is just enough.

This just right.

image via tumblr

For Dad.

I’m trapped behind the barriers
screaming out your name
but you’re too far down the platform
just please don’t get on that train.

Hazy mornings are the most free
before the day rears his ugly face
before reality hurtles in
I cherish this bland taste.

But then my mind falls to sliding doors
to final words whispered through cracks
to last strokes of blue skin
to twenty past eight.

Some goodbyes can a outstretch a lifetime
like how I could have stayed all night
kissing your cheek, holding your hand
how leaving would have always been too soon.

I wish that you never got on that train
now all I have left of you are tracks.

The North Star.

My summer nights are christened with your name, your smile adorning these rolling fields with garlands of light.  And I continue to spend my summer days falling fast into these wisps of straw, with absolutely no intention of getting up. With every beam of your rose-stained lips and every glow of your tangled laughter, these cold bones grow warmer, and blue flesh becomes flushed.

And, for the first time in a long time, I feel alive.

But I can’t have you: you are a Michelangelo and I’m a thrift shop steal. You are a symphony and I’m a broken string. You are a shining glory fallen upon my calloused mistakes. I am more than damaged goods; I am a fountain of broken glass.

I may look, but I cannot possibly touch.

But I don’t mind, because people have their places and relationships have their time. I would rather gaze across this gliding sunset than never experience it at all. And I will continue to return to these summer nights and have you bless every passing star which blankets us. Maybe one day my fractures will become joins, and maybe I will become a vessel that no longer leaks. Maybe then my ink-stained hands will be able to clasp something as tender as you.

Nevertheless, it is beyond a pleasure to witness your great orchestra, even if I am but a blurred face in a bustling crowd.

The last day.

You get a strange feeling when you’re about to leave a place. Like you will not only miss the people you love but you will miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you will never be this way ever again.
Azar Nafisi

Fire.

Deep in midnight, we set these walls ablaze
We hurled daggers from our mouths
Breathed fire from our lungs
We mercilessly broke each other down until nothing was left
Our silent screams echoed for no one to hear
And we fell deeply, darkly into a restless slumber

But as the light of morning cradled your every edge
We awoke fragilely in a silver embrace
Chains were broken; freedmen were made
Wounds were cleaned; burns were healed
Curves dominated faces
We were free and everything had returned.

(image via tumblr)

Untitled.

And she loved him. She loved him with every closing of those familiar sliding doors, every glide of cigarette smoke, every last chime of wine-stained laughter. And she missed him, waking with that dull ache of reality as morning crept across her body. His smell had long left her room, but his mark was still scorched on her skin, in a place that could never quite heal.

But time had passed and drastic decisions had long been fixed in their ways. He would never love her. His passion began and ended on those cold January days, whilst she carried on burning. She made sure the flame lay low, deep inside where no one would discover the burning ash inside of her lungs. So she filled her days with empty conversations and tried to put people in gaps that just didn’t fit. She tried to forget him, she honestly did. He was tirelessly flawed and tarnished and painful, but he had a grip on her that her fingers just couldn’t undo. He was a masterpiece of broken glass; a summer’s day without any shade. And without knowing, she would always hope for dark eyes in the countless puddles of blue.

She continued burning away, putting away everything they had once shared at the back of her wardrobe. That is where her monsters would live. And she slowly accepted that she would forever be but a snowflake in his great avalanche; an exhale of smoke in his grand ballroom.

(image via tumblr)

Empty bed syndrome.

She lay there awake at night, wishing she was somewhere else. Kisses were her company and hugs were her home. Her blankets were a limp arm and her lungs only worked if the air passed through other lips.

She was trapped in a place where even friends couldn’t fill the void: she no longer craved love. The only thing that kept her bones warm at night was the heat of a naked body pressed against her. She missed him. She still found his outline next to her at night. She pressed herself around his skinny waist and she kissed his nose and curled her eyelashes around his cheeks, only to realise that this was another body. This one wouldn’t hold her tightly in the final moment; this one wouldn’t chase the night away with silent whispers. He may be soft and gentle, but, to her, he was just a familiar shell of a long-missed body.

She realised that she couldn’t sleep with that empty cupboard next to her, because she could never have empty spaces in her life: everything had to have its place; everything had to be filled. And for this reason, she could never be alone. Empty air was constricting; open spaces were suffocating.

So she rolled over, wishing that he could fill that void, wishing that he would come back to bed and fill this ghostly space between them.

(image via tumblr)

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