Unspecial

By:  Sierra

 

::so lonely inside, so busy out there, and all you wanted was somebody who cares::

 

Take my hand so slowspecialslow and hold it up to the light. Turn it and study it and praise it, but just know it will never be yours. Walk into this room and stare me down, with eyes tantalizing and beckoning me to tortilla-warm sunsets and sand beneath our feet. Rolling over the sand-grazed bed, one and the same for one night alone.

 

But if you never loved me, then why are you here? The candles flicker so sadly-slow, rubbing up against the air. And for some reason, I can see your lips, touching the air, and I realize my lips are touching the same air too. It's hard to lick them, because I've forgotten how to touch, how to feel, especially concerning you.

 

So suddenly, wonder boy, here you are. Your feet placed solidly on the ground, on the carpet I wanted to press you to, to have my body pressed to. I wanted so badly to feel every inch of you in this room, to feel your presence in every inch of this room forever and for all time.

 

You, your eyes so ever other-worldly in their glow, decided to pass it over, pass me over. So why are you here again? Can you remind me, or do I have to remind you of the nights where I flicked the tab on the soda can along to your voice humming, singing, lighting, as I looked at you intently and you looked away? As I touched your arm and you touched mine and it was cold, cold, cold, because you felt no heat for my touch in return?

 

And you drop your necklace, a token to the night, silver shimmer links into my palm, while it shines and glitters and slithers down. The look in your eyes tells me that tonight is finally that night I wished for so midnight highs, when the wind was my only company and the curtains danced in the glass doors, ghosts of figures that would say I was beautiful. Your hand is slightly wet, anticipating my response- my hand clasping around the chain and taking yours in return.

 

And do I have to remind you of the water you never saw, pouring from my soul and wasted because of you? Falling and sizzling away in heat of passion and the heat of incense, stick upon stick that I lit, hoping the fumes would carry the sight of you away. I wonder if I could take that water and put it back into me, because right now I feel like I'm drowning in nothing at all, and maybe if I add a little more, I won't have to breath anymore at all.

 

Do I have to scream for you? Do I have to smile for you? Do I have to feel at all? Do I owe you anything, simply because you're a boy, a boy who is the wonder and a bright light among the rest of us shallow, unspecial specks of the world? A midnight star, a breathing desert flower that rests lightly on the sand. And I am your sand, the grains you use up, you sneer at later, which you have to deal with simply because I'm there?

 

And instead I now sit at the oasis, far away from you. And I stare, stare at your face ghostly white because you can't believe the lonely dull star would ever shy away from the bright shooting star blasting across the heavens in all its glory. And your hand slides down the doorway, slowly, shockingly, slapping at your thigh. Your necklace falls to the floor, inching each link out of the knuckles of your limp fingers.

 

Take my candles, wonder boy. Maybe they can give you a little more light. I can survive without the light, but you cannot. You thrive on it, greedily letting it glimmer in your pores. And those fingers of yours speak to me, which I once wanted to lace up my back, so feather light. They tell a story of a boy who lives for lust and then leaves, who surges on his sense of power and breaks down into his pillow at night.

 

And the fingers shout that they are the unspecial ones, jaded and dead and doing the only things they know how- singing out the night and touching for the sensation. Because, my dear, my little shimmering burst of white and wonder and song, shooting stars burn out easily, and die.

 

But you knew that.

 

The End

 

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