We’re a little too tired to speak sometimes and our eyes only stare back like half-moon slivers in the inky sky. I think we’re pulling at each other like tides until we find some way to balance each other out. I can feel the glow of your ropes around my wrists and I think I’ll let you pull me up with you, and when we both run away, back to the sea, I hope we get to move as one. I like the way you’re dark like my house when I come in from outside and how my eyes have to readjust to you every time I see you again. You’re some shadow—a silhouette—on the edges of my vision and you break through my sun-soaked eyes every time. There’s something about the way you don’t care that I wear floral print while I listen to hardcore on my record player or eat all of the grapes or stay up the whole night talking your ear off. There’s something about the way you’re unafraid to bare your pale parts even though I know you think that people favor the dark. Or for the the ways you know how to untangle the worry I am always braiding into myself, for the songs you wrote and the words you spoke and how I’m used to slamming myself into people who feel like brick walls and you feel like a warm bath after a cold day—or maybe more like a cold shower after a hot one. I like the way I’m used to the searing sun and all of its aching heat and you’re more like moonlight, the way you carry the same torch that I do and how we’re well on our way down the dark and uneven path. I know I’m a little bit soft, a little too afraid, and maybe you’re rough like rock—gritty like sand. I guess we’re both a little crooked, a little weird, a little discontent, but I like the honesty in anxiety and I think the moonlight illuminates strengths that no other light can.
Saturday, November 06, 2010