Ties, a wrong love story.

I am sending a postcard, with love for a post mark

I am relearning love, so sweet when you burst out laughing. Fire crackles and thunders roar, I am convinced there must be a kind of love we are capable of.
I am convinced as I climb up the staircases, wondering if the steps would go on forever, I can see you standing on the landing, your head cocked to a side and just when I reach the last step I slide down to the bottom. Climb and fall on the marble steps, you’re unattainable. The sun has crawled up from behind me and is now glaring down behind your hair, you’re in shadows and the days pass too.
The world is Sisyphus’ rock, tediously spinning in circles.

I am writing a love story, I am trying to break the wheel. I’ll find the happy ending for those locked in the asylum.

and when the lights start flashing like a photo booth, and the stars explode and we will be fireproof.

He walks down the empty street, tugging at his fluffy hair. He contemplates the silence for a moment, eventually ventures with a question.
Does your kind of a date have ice cream?
She hold the umbrella like a light saber, looking up at him with a tiny, imperceptible smile.
“Yes it does.”

On the empty crossing, waiting for the light to turn green, he tries to be brave-
“Does it have butterflies?”

“Yes it does.”

They cross the road, the sodium lamps make the wet asphalt glow with a muted tiredness. The clock strikes one, the world is tired of being beautiful.

He picks at a scab on his wrist, his mind is playing fast car by chapman<

we’ve got to make a decision, leave tonight or live and die this way

Her mind is hidden behind walls of silence, her phone buzzes quietly. She doesn’t pick it up. He feels slightly encouraged.

Oh the last time I saw you, you looked so much older, your famous blue raincoat was torn in the shoulder

His voice shakes slightly- “Why is it different then?”

Her voice is sharp, he thinks of a jagged piece of glass. That could melt into a pool of water, yet could kill him before he came close enough. “I’ve never met someone I wanted to go to one with.”

They are sitting on a park bench. There is a slight wind teasing the leaves. The world is asleep, the stars are quiet.
She thinks of nothing, staring at the ovals of her nails.

He bites his lip, blurts out-
“What is love?”

Her laughter is sudden. It leaves him unsettled. She feels her insides ache.

“You ask all the right questions.”

She presses her knuckles to her eyes, imagining their future.
She thinks of him undressing her. She steals a glance at him, his figure is slight, but his fingers betray the deception. The veins stand out, he is stronger than he looks.

the universe just vanished out of sight. And all the stars collapsed behind a pitch black night.
Baby you’re the hope that ends disaster

“The truth is, I do not know what love is.”

He nods slowly, studying his hands, before looking up to the moon. “You’re the it
You’re the love. No one else.”

She shakes her head, her hair smells of shampoo.
“Love isn’t a product. Neither is it psychology. It isn’t absurd, or structured. It’s simpler and more complex. I am a product of the society, I cannot be love, not in entirety.”

They’re at the door to her house, her door is simple wood, brown. The grains stand out in his concentrated gaze. He doesn’t want to leave.
He doesn’t understand it yet, not quite, but leaving her would be a mistake, his instincts are insistent on that. His palms turn sweaty.

The cracking of her spoon against the cup is the only sound in the room. The smell of coffee fills the air, he runs his fingers over the spines, the books arch, groan against his touch, inviting,

The titles whisper to him.
He found the kafkas beside Harper Lee, Llosa and Marquez, piles of thoughts all left around her, worlds she had visited, swords she had won in Narnian battles.

Now I understand, what you tried to say to me, how you suffered for your sanity, how you tried to set them free.

“This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.”
She had leaned in to hand him the steaming cup of coffee. He smiled slightly at the compliment. It was a compliment, wasn’t it?

“Holden Caufield thinks you’re a phony.” He had said it without meaning to. To the boy who was trying to cozy her up at the party. He had insisted on making up poems about her face. Misogynistic pieces about the shape of the nose and a hundred other stereotypical comparisons.

She repeated the sentence now, rolling the words on her tongue, wondering at their taste.
“Do you think they’ll find out?”

He sips the coffee, “what?”

She folds her knees and curls up on the couch. “That Their literary genius means nothing, they’re all husks walking around with dangerously communicable ailments. They’ll kill us all.”

“They haven’t got a clue.”

“Do you think we will kill them?

He keeps the delicate China cup on the table. “No, we don’t know how to.”

She plays with a strand of her hair. “Where is this going?”

He smiles, his insides ache.

“We are going back into society, to let it break us and chew us and spit us out.”

She has a film of tears in her eyes. “That is the price of together, then?”


Two people can break each other, or build each other up again. Either ways, the catcher in the rye always fails the moment one finds out what the other person means to them.


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