built by constructs; luke&roan
May 18, 2018 14:47:27 GMT -5
Post by kousei ♚ on May 18, 2018 14:47:27 GMT -5
r o a n
You aren't founded on many places
and you're defined by very few faces.
Preserve the basis of brightness and the solar flare in your chest doesn't burn any dimmer despite this fact, the want gnawing at the back of your throat to watch light weep in its entirety doesn't set with twilight. You're a tortured artist, heavy brush strokes across your canvas, and the idea seems almost masochistic at heart. Following a desire to unlock the beauty buried beneath the Earth's core despite lacking the capacity to see what you construct past its shapes and know what it means to love it.
(because even after seventeen years
you still don't realize
there's more to love than a hue you cannot see)
Squinted eyes, furrowed eyebrows and broken lead; this is an extension you refuse to drop. You forget what it means to house organs that aren't yours to cherish, you forget how your body moves to preserve a cyclical pulse that doesn't sustain it. You see the irony in how you trace the outline of a heart, a proper heart wrapped tight with a system of winding veins and arteries, calms the racing of yours. How it's so easy to forget how you imagine yourself as nothing more than a hollow shell with an emptied core at night.
There are days when you think you can be optimistic; that you can have everything despite being nothing at all. Because you have more to give than defective eyes, that your best quality isn't your healthy heart and porcelain white lungs; there's more to you than the function to breathe and the organs you house in your empty core.
So you hold up your heart through proud eyes and let the moonlight catch it just right. So the tendrils of the sun chase away the shadows pinning it to the darkness, if you look close enough and stare hard enough then you can see every expansion and contraction of muscle. It doesn't function, but it's yours and you decide that it's nice to be allowed to pretend.
"I bet you look beautiful."
You want to love beautiful things you cannot see.
You take off, soles of trainers scurrying across creaking floorboards and paper clutched tight to your chest. You traverse across boundaries set by silver light, and rise to the sound of a paper pulse. You allow yourself to breathe and taste fresh air; this is one of very few places you call your foundation.
Tracing with your eyes and finding his outline; one of very few faces that define you. Luke. You smile but the name doesn't roll off your tongue, nothing like the name Rose, doesn't rouse the same storm within your chest and shatter the same bones. But he's a definition, a face you call your own and a smile that makes you smile. He's contagious in that way.
"Luke."
Automatic; the name rolls off the tongue.
You're carried across the sand, leaving a trail of afterimages behind in your wake as you hold out the paper organ in your hand. A reminder that you can have everything while simultaneously being nothing at all. There's so much you could do, with all this nothing, and he's a reminder of that.
"I drew something, nothing much, more of a doodle but I figured you'd like it," twenty-four hours prior you might've kicked yourself for being so stupid. Because what could Luke Hailsham ever want to do with a paper heart constructed by your musings and desire to find a coping mechanism? "I dunno, maybe you could give it to someone special."
That'll do, you suppose.