One-way ticket to Boston, two heavyhearted faces, and three words never pronounced. Four days away from a newborn chapter not yet ready to be written. Outside, the Sun radiates after months of bareness and gray in the sky, but we suffer still from inherent whiteout in each of our mind.
I grab a book of poetry, make my way to your room, twenty seconds away from my studio. You’re calming still on your sofa with your headphones on, mumbling tones and lyrics I’m very much familiar with. Owls-patterned sweater overwhelms your skinny posture, matching my assorted birds-patterned midi skirt. A cup of dark cocoa I could smell, fusing with a hint of lavender-vanilla scent of your air freshener in the background. I then lay my back on the cushions upon your usual crumpled bed, begin to ponder within spilled ink of elegiac ode that comprises a universe I build privately for myself.
You’re still in your own universe also, I could see you from afar, afloat among tunes that I favor very much too. I’d like to sing with you just like the usual days, I really would love to, but time almost ceases—at least for us. All I could do is joining you here, saving you from the comfort of your own company, deliberately adding more burden to our shoulders as we countdown to the expiration of our period of coexisting together. Boston and Stockholm; 3,741 miles of separation. Unknown time limit.
You grab your book of dystopia combined with philosophical questions—the kind of stories I would never apprehend no matter how frantic you’ve always become every time you narrate me the whole synopsis. You lay next to me, quitting from the universe you’re in before, moving to the next stop of galaxy. I’m still drowning in sentimental proses you barely appreciate. And there, just like that, I burst into tears. Questions overflowing inside my brain are just too unbearably massive to withstand. You hug me.
In awkwardness, we survive twenty-three minutes of my weep, the only voices we could hear is my depression, and your mind begins to become overfilled with uneasiness. You tell me things are going to be where it deserves to be. I don’t want to. I want to make mistakes for once in my life, I want to be mistaken, I want you to be part of the sweetest mistake I would have ever done, I want to sound cheesy and full of cliché for once in my life.
My mind is already cheating all this time. My heart has undergone even so much worse of stages. My imagination and desire altogether have gone unforgiveable. Continents away from me, a clueless soul bounded with me by pledges and vows, thinking I am doing perfectly fine and all right and trusted. I am not.
But there you are all this time; taking care of my honesty, keeping my grace together. Not even trying to persuade me to quit behaving. Leaving me physically untouched. Although you leave the other parts—heart and mind—mishandled and disarrayed.
This particular room—an attester of many beautiful individuals whom you have been inside for the past half year, while never have I ever become one of them. Yet still, I own the very space for you to constantly come back and be home. And you always do, and my acceptance is always given at zero price.
I fall asleep counting memories instead of sheep, the lamp is turned on still. Shelves in countless bookstores, narrow streets in unknown cities and towns, world’s most well-known lakes and mountain, obscure musicians on fancy stages, homemade signature dishes of yours, cutleries that we share, collection of DVDs of documentary movies, and so forth. All that makes the loudest year in my constantly tranquil life. All that comes to presence because of you and your inescapable lure towards me.
00:01 AM, and another remaining day is elapsed. I am awake and staring at such perfection contained within a single individual slumbering restfully next to me, sharing a crumpled single bed once again, who doesn’t even let himself to touch me just because. With his ivory skin contrasting his ebony hair, mental fatigue disguised inside his beautiful hollow-cheeked face, and burdens of detaching placed upon his stiff shoulders. Pale-shaded lips incapable of conveying the purest truth.
And all that he knows, all that he’s very much talented at, all kinds of intelligence that tease me in the first place. All that he is.
All values that I could not disengage.
Not in three days.