sacha dupont ; fox/lalia ; white elephant
Jan 9, 2016 13:25:38 GMT -5
Post by Avalon on Jan 9, 2016 13:25:38 GMT -5
☆
S a c h a
You've never stayed in one place for so long -- not since you had found a home in Seve.
You worked mornings and he worked nights, the impossibility of time burrowing a dichotomy like red and blue in the spaces you shared. Each day, you had four hours within the land of intimacy and whispers.
Underneath bedsheets, you and Seve explored the minute details of each other's lives in the subtlety of biological phenomena: deep breaths, warming skin, dilated pupils. And you used to trade heartbeats like this -- those fleeting hours spent with your ear pressed against the pillow of his chest, slowly, softly, lulled into an accidental sleep by the end of the afternoon.
(The sound of his pulse pounded in your ears so steady and safe, that you had forgotten the motion of your own heart for his.)
When you woke up -- bleary-eyed and yawning in the evening -- he would be gone. But you've always placed a lot of faith in the promises made underneath starlit beginnings. By morning, he would be in your arms once more, and this cycle of kisses and getting by would start all over. Again and again for almost seven hundred days; these were your two years of playing makeshift house. Time passed like clouds, his love leaving smudges of sky blue between the spaces of your fingers.
Seve was the first thing you had; he was yours.
Or maybe you were his.
(And he had left you with nothing but the colour of regret.)
You still go back. You still go back to the steps of the orphanage, the stone garden, the abandoned farm. He told you don't cry, and you haven't, burying your tears away in all the places he used to be. There is a fragility in the optimism left in the blue Seve-shaped spaces, but you refuse to let these flighty hopes break in your grasp. You still trace back your steps, hold onto these memories, and move in retrograde motions. You keep going back.
The snow falls light and powdery onto the gravel roads, the muddy soil, and at your feet. Frost finds its way through your flimsy coat, gently itching down your spine in shivers as you stand silent before your paradisiacal farmhouse. But this is not the same place you had left two years ago.
You breathe cirrus clouds
and you see blue skies
and you still remember Eden.
Before the crappy apartment, you had this barn and you had this house. You used to explore the hollowed insides of these skeletal structures with intrepid curiosity. You remember finding cracked saucers in the kitchen, sunlight and ferns wrapping around the cupboards through the holes in the wall. And you remember the shoe left in the rubble of the upstairs bedroom on the right...and the barely legible writing carved into the peach wallpaper in the hallway, spelling out the thoughts of some previous vagrant...Back then, you used to imagine a life between the dilapidated walls. It was a picturesque decay, a relic of a time before everything had changed. And it had been your dream for a long time.
The land turned into a field of yellow flowers in spring. You and Seve would build a life together surrounded by sunset colours, lying side by side underneath the amber sun and ontop of the expanse of golden wood-sorrel. Someday -- he said -- this will be ours.
Someday.
You've walked passed this place so many times before, looking for Seve in these ordinary things. Maybe it's the biting cold, the flicker of warm memories, the blue that you still see everywhere -- but you suddenly find yourself climbing through the broken window of your farmhouse today, desperate to search for the remnants of his promise.
