Soukoku Aesthetics

Diamonds. Getting lost in paperwork. Black. (But it’s comforting). Making yourself at home. Their name being the last thing you’ll ever say. Parallel lines never crossing. Is that wine or a new lipstick? Poetry you never finish. Sloppy kisses in the dark. Vintage stamps.

Unlaced shoes. Fumbling over buttons. Forgetting how much you hate them. Waking up alone in the morning. A half-cold, half-hot mug of coffee. Unopened letters. Refusing to let anyone see you cry. Tracing scars. (Getting new ones). Pain and pleasure intertwined. Ribbons.

Scattered books. Hangovers. Blood on the bedsheets. French music lilting you to sleep. Childhood being a foreign thing. Growing up too fast, but together. Gunfire in the background. Getting used to nightmares. Pills. Train tickets. Saving you, again and again.

Flicking the lights on and seeing red. Clinic waiting rooms. Wincing at the smell of hospitals. (We’ve grown up, I hardly noticed). Magazines hidden under mattresses. Bad habits you can’t get rid of. Passing a cigarette, an old flask, hungry kisses back and forth.

The giggle at a funeral. Born sick, but they love it.
Notes left on the table. Watching the sun set on a rooftop. Half-hearted missions to nowhere in particular. Lying. Stumbling into dark rooms. Promises you never keep. Unresolved arguments. A wire you can never unwind.

Handcuffs. Masterpieces. (You don’t have to say anything). Trips to Russia, or anywhere no one can find us. Tugging on the choker. Smirking. Inside jokes you never forget. Your one friend in the world. Glaring at each other from across the room.

Being sixteen and stupid and probably in love. Deserving better. Moaning in the dark. Wilted camellias clinging to life. Gripping their shirt out of desperation. Swearing, but not meaning it. Wishing they’d come back. Never being enough. Radio silence.

Saying you never want to see them again but looking for their face in the crowd anyway. The heartache never leaving. (Nobody compares to you). The best and worst memories. Knowing everything, but still having so many questions. A deck of cards, worn and ripped. A quiet apartment.

Shared clothes. The crackle of old leftovers being tossed in the trash. Nostalgia. Not wanting anything for your birthday. Bullets shattering windows. The gramophone groaning closed. Not noticing the music’s stopped. Broken glass bottles. Drunk dialling. Never getting over them.

Paying the other back. Irreparable damage. Assessing the situation. Being fine with the loneliness. Forgiveness, always. Trusting, despite. You’ll wait for me, won’t you? (He will).

// END