Narcotics by Endearment

So this is what I've been working on for the past half hour. I had some romantic/depressing muse and decided to pour it into this little short story. It's a bit rough around the edges and such since it isn't a serious piece, but I am thinking about submitting it to this writing contest thing. Idk. Tell me what you think? <3


Dearest Light of Lights,

Love is a game, they say. Well I’m ready to play as long as you’re on the opposing end. The first of us to fall off of the secure pedestals of singular normalcy and into the pool of unknown infatuation loses. No cash prizes involved – though I must say, you are a prize in itself – only the reassurance that one of our hearts is encased in a steel enclosure, impenetrable even to the other.

Game on.

----

In that moment, lanky bodies linked beneath the resplendent night sky, they were infinite. As the pressing of their limbs grew more insistent, they were giving more and more away to one another. Each heated kiss was another shred of their young hearts passed into new ownership, each thrust of their boney hips was another vulnerable moment in which every emotion was exposed to other’s observant eye.

Neither of them cared, however, because with each passing moment they spent in such a personal embrace, it was becoming ever so clear that she was his, and he was hers.

----

Watery eyes obscure his vision of the street below, and for once the doleful teenager is thankful for his gloomy spirit. Sounds of rush hour slowly drift to meet his ears, the impersonal sounds of angry truck drivers pounding on their horns, the laughter and melancholy of Friday-night partiers drifting from bar to bar.

Love is a lie. Love is a lie. Love is a lie love is a lie loveisalie.

Irresolute, the phrase has been repeated again and again in the boy’s head - a means of reassuring himself that this plan is sensible - until the words run together, his clumsy train of thought falling through altogether.

The others don’t matter.

Closed eyes and closed heart, her image is in his mind when he lets himself go.

It is her petite face and kind eyes he pictures as his body cuts impassively through the wind.

It is the euphonic way she spoke he uses to drown out the sound of screaming – is it those down below, or his own? – as his head makes contact with the concrete.

And it is the feel of her skin against his that he envisions as he approaches the clouds, her name like honey on his dead lips.