hydrochloricacd

"All the times you said this was broken
and we should quit, you were right.
Glue it with gifts and it's still
( ugly with cracks )"

I've realized this is the first time i've ever truly loved someone, but who knows,

i've probably said that before.

I had a dream one night. Him and i were sitting on an isolated beach, surrounded by big mountains of rolling green. the tops of the mountains poked through a thick veil of fog that colored the sky gray, or desaturated the color of the sky.

i'm not really sure which.

it gently and listlessly floated and drifted about, creating a strange sense of atmosphere... or maybe that there was no atmosphere. 

We just sat next to each other and watched the waves.

i could almost hear the silence, or, maybe, the silence was deafening. It's hard to say. the only sound I could hear was a faint ringing in my ears.

so I guess silence has a sound.

They were massive, these waves. The size of the waves made the size of body feel insignificant. Yet they were calm. The waves never broke at the shore, never crashed, but just grew. and we just sat and watched. We didn't touch each other, we didn't look at each other, we said nothing to one another, but just existed there on that sand.

We just sat there

and as the waves grew bigger, we dug our toes deeper

"I'm afraid I don't know what to say."
"I'm afraid that there's nothing to say."

his brown eyes were full and heavy, loaded with all the emotion he has ever felt. they held all the sadness and lightness of being. It was as if the entire ocean rested behind the splinters of blue and green that fractured the brown of his eyes. the depths of his ocean undiscovered, even by him. she always felt at one with the mercurial waters, for they matched the tendencies of her soul. she felt comfortably warm as she gazed into them, and best of all, understood. innately. 

he sat on her bed and played that song she loved so much, as she clutched her pillow like a teenage girl dealing with her first hormonal arousal. his voice trembled with palpable passion when he sang; the palliative treatment for her long-suffered palpitations. during his shows she slipped through the thick of the crowd, falling further into his sound waves. and danced until her skin glistened with sweat. 

he snuck the tip of his finger to the back of her neck, touching only the hairs. her eyes closed in complete bliss as she shuddered in his hands. he played her until she screamed out the dissonance of his song. And now all that's left of him is a crumpled note stuck to the lint of her pocket she wrote for him, but never actually gave him that reads, "I'm sorry..." It was a hot flash of passion that needed to be stomped out as quickly as possible. 

Her words rang through the silence like a resonant bell. But they were all the wrong words. Not to say they weren't for him, because they were, but they shouldn't have been given to him. The sound clung to the air like the vibrations of a Tibetan prayer bell, resetting the energy of the room. The sound made the silence much more apparent. She was fine. His silence hugged the words until they disappeared. He was fine. 

I allow for the solitude of my sleeplessness to strip away my inhibitions. Layer by layer i expose my liberations, which shine too brightly for the naked eye to be seen. The languid nature of my thoughts allows me to puncture the limitations that so frequently suffocate my amorphous consciousness. it is only in the late late hours of the night, way after the night has consumed the day and pending splinters of light assuage the midnight sky, that my thoughts slowly splash back and forth within my mind, unhurriedly and heavily. My thoughts mingle with the dark blue gradient of early morning, thicken in the still air, and crystalize upon the unruffled grass and the lifeless cars.
I feel certain thoughts press against the backs of my eyes in an attempt to free themselves, but not knowing exactly how. they do not find themselves to my mouth. they swell and collect until my eyes cannot bear the burden. these thoughts pour out of the corners of my eyes, trailing long and thin remnants, still fervently trying to express whatever it was they wanted to say in the first place. the rivers of water remind me of my veins that pump blood through desultory paths, or of the branches of a tree that buckle and crimp capriciously and cautiously. They did not find themselves to my mouth, but they found themselves to my lips. My curious tongue can't help but to taste the salt of its own body. Trying to decipher the meaning of these tears, my twisted tongue can't seem to find the words. These languid thoughts are languid words. Too languid to be rightly expressed. Only to be felt, and tasted, and felt. 

I wonder if thoughts happen to us.