magnus rae / capitol-designer / (fin)

magnus rae / capitol-designer / (fin) Dec 29, 2017 6:40:51 GMT -5

Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Dec 29, 2017 6:40:51 GMT -5

Magnus Rae

and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.

━ Charles Bukowski

T-W: POSSESSIVE RELATIONSHIP;

i. seen.

I've seen you before. A mirage, a visage from the past. The déjà vu was overwhelming. I can't clutch back the oxygen when it detached itself from my lungs. You, plump cheeks, dirty-blonde, with effervescence in your words. Painted in gold, you have the glow in your teeth and the eyes of the men amongst the rickety crowd undress those cherry-patterned, legless underpants you always wear when you're putting on a show for the clientele. But, you have a way with words and it never fails to make me and every other person in the room gravitate nearer to you. It is in the nature of an enchanter to be wickedly hypnotic. Self-control is a meditation I practiced on a daily basis and you broke it with the bat of an eyelash. However, before all the hard feelings and maelstroms, you didn’t wear glitter on your eyelashes. Didn’t draw me close and whisper haloed nothings into my ear—you were always so meaningful and it’s a trait we shared. An attribute that kept us intertwined and inseparable.

ii. told.

I've told you before. Our very own fragmented version of pillow-talk. I don't want them touching you. I draw my territories and I don't like to share, a predator who's protective of his prey. Those men use your legs as an easel and they doodle on the canvas of your body whereas I am evoking a renaissance of art within the very pores of your skin. Our conversations rival the greatest pieces of literature. You don't deserve their cheap words; take the gold that spills from my tongue. Use my freckled back muscles on nights when you can’t keep your hands to yourself. I want to feel the pain you so passionately flare across my body.

iii. hurt.

I've hurt you before. Broke you into an array shards. Constrained you. Suffocated you. Made you love the thrill of a stranger’s hand around your throat. Pushed you to the extremes because that’s the kind’ of person I was schooled to be. Meticulous and a control-freak. Son of a capitol stylist and a father I’ve been deprived of since birth. Forced to keep the mess away from my suits and sweep the mess under the rug. It’s become a reflex now, a muscle-memory that’s rooted itself into my skin, to control. Our 3:00 AMs were me, tracing an outline of your face. In those soirees, I made you linger within my earshot. My apologies can never glue you back together. My hands now bleed when I caress you because I deformed you, a translucent statue, into a piece of jagged glass. Let's hope a kiss a day can smoothen those sharp edges yours. I know these words have no value now but it doesn't hurt to repeat: I am sorry.

iv. kissed.

You've kissed me before. Stood on tiptoes to level with my six feet frame, ran your fingers through my heap of raven hair, clawed at the brims of my signature indigo suit. Breathed in my strawberry aftershave. Back then, you hadn't dyed your hair. It was so midnight in color and stars often confused you for home. Your eyes didn't wear those white contact lens, your gaze was as depthless as the oceans that I could done butterfly-strokes in it. And, in those days, the kisses neither stung nor carried an alcoholic's breath. Back then, I could've lived off your lips. Fortunately, I did not. If I did, I would be decaying in a grave by now because I discovered that you began breathing nicotine like oxygen after we parted ways. I know that’s a habit I flung upon you like a genetic behavior that’s passed on in a heritage line. We would sit in the air of your balcony, legs linked and a pair of hands speaking to each other in an intimate language that our lips can’t translate into words. And I, with a cigarette in the other hand, would tempt you to try out a puff as if the nicotine is a dessert and we’re out cake-tasting. One day, you did. And, you haven’t stopped since.

v. astonished.

You've astonished me before. When I found you, draped in the bar's atmosphere, letting those men touch you in your prides. I stood there, paralyzed, as laughter dug into your brain and you let out a string of giggles. It was the first time our gazes touched after we went our separate ways. I remember when those hands used to be mine, thumbing a stray strand of hair back into place or holding yours whenever it trembles—especially when mother sent you a bunch of letters in scarlet, a formal invitation to dinner and you came, red-cheeked, trying to smile from ear to ear. It made me smile from ear to ear. It's impractical of me to smile for more than mere seconds. I miss the innocent us. Sure, innocence was never in my veins but you told me it did exist there. Made me have an illusory sense of innocence whilst you permitted me to dirty you. This was what I made you into.

vi. tempted.

You've tempted me before. When Snow White was given the apple, it must had looked so crimson despite the poison it was syringed with, because you were my poison apple. But, in our tale, I put toxin in you in hopes of poisoning myself but the circumstances changed and you poisoned yourself. It’s all my doings. Even then, there was a part of me that wanted my pearly whites to take a bite. But, my moth wings had been scorched down by your flames before – as have been yours by mine.

vii. whispered.

Never again, I whispered to myself as I left the bar, letting those doors shut behind me and headed out to set the style-house up for the day, to earn a living. The chapters of my life with you in it have concluded. The pages are burnt. But, your giggles haven’t strolled out the gates of my brain yet. Our love lingers in the form of red patches on our bodies. I used to think they were made out of endearment—the paintings on our skins. But now I know: they are only a way of saying: ‘we’re struck together, forever.’