reliable feelings // dio&chance
Mar 15, 2022 15:14:19 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Mar 15, 2022 15:14:19 GMT -5
D I O N Y S U S
I feel nothing all the time.
I feel something once, and it consumes me.
My skin is warm. And memory comes to me in drunkenness, all those summers of apricot wines and sweet grass, bright moons dripping into the ocean like nectar from fruit, the shape of his shadow in my palms.
I feel something once, and then I feel like dying.
Strange, the way everything he looks at catches on fire.
Smoking on the balcony, I burn with the embers, every thought going up in flames too.
The party unfolds below. Girls run across the lawn, holding hands and shedding glitter in the grass. People fall over each other in the pool full of floating plastic cups. Vomit and piss in the bushes. Careers sweetening each brief encounter with death, crowing of the warm blood flowing rich in their veins.
I think I've been tired for longer than I've even existed.
For a while, I was okay with this weight, surrendering to every feather of my coat of downy exhaustion. I asked myself to fall into the motions of playing alive each morning, but I was never really there, watching my own exterior sit through dining tables and conversations and business meetings, and life became a series of vignettes, one after the other, nothing in between.
I feel something once that seems warm and human, and I think I'll be okay, like I could lose my body, lose the weariness.
The night is humid. People walk in and out of the balcony doors, chattering idly. Spring comes in like a wild beast in District Four, and the air hums with a torrential downpour biding its time. I drop the butt of the cigarette into my cup, watching the ashes make little gray clouds.
I feel so bored.
I've been here before.
I pull another cigarette from the carton, holding it between my lips. But the lighter sparks twice with no flame. Weighing it in my hands, the metal embossed with a honey bee, I run my fingers across it, the other side knotting into the botanical Vicario emblem.
I slip it back into my pocket.
Well shit. I need to sober up before I can go home.
And then, a girl walks out onto the balcony, leaning against the railing and looking down at the people below. Her hair falls over her shoulder like a gold curtain.
Distractions come personified.
I turn to her, all easy smiles, "Babe, you have a light?"
I feel something once, and it consumes me.
My skin is warm. And memory comes to me in drunkenness, all those summers of apricot wines and sweet grass, bright moons dripping into the ocean like nectar from fruit, the shape of his shadow in my palms.
I feel something once, and then I feel like dying.
Strange, the way everything he looks at catches on fire.
Smoking on the balcony, I burn with the embers, every thought going up in flames too.
The party unfolds below. Girls run across the lawn, holding hands and shedding glitter in the grass. People fall over each other in the pool full of floating plastic cups. Vomit and piss in the bushes. Careers sweetening each brief encounter with death, crowing of the warm blood flowing rich in their veins.
I think I've been tired for longer than I've even existed.
For a while, I was okay with this weight, surrendering to every feather of my coat of downy exhaustion. I asked myself to fall into the motions of playing alive each morning, but I was never really there, watching my own exterior sit through dining tables and conversations and business meetings, and life became a series of vignettes, one after the other, nothing in between.
I feel something once that seems warm and human, and I think I'll be okay, like I could lose my body, lose the weariness.
The night is humid. People walk in and out of the balcony doors, chattering idly. Spring comes in like a wild beast in District Four, and the air hums with a torrential downpour biding its time. I drop the butt of the cigarette into my cup, watching the ashes make little gray clouds.
I feel so bored.
I've been here before.
I pull another cigarette from the carton, holding it between my lips. But the lighter sparks twice with no flame. Weighing it in my hands, the metal embossed with a honey bee, I run my fingers across it, the other side knotting into the botanical Vicario emblem.
I slip it back into my pocket.
Well shit. I need to sober up before I can go home.
And then, a girl walks out onto the balcony, leaning against the railing and looking down at the people below. Her hair falls over her shoulder like a gold curtain.
Distractions come personified.
I turn to her, all easy smiles, "Babe, you have a light?"
