What can you tell me about now?
With your eyes bright and steady. I'm so sorry I made them shake last night. You pressed your hands to your lips to steady them as you stared back at me. I saw your face change, your smile fade, your eyes darken, and just like that a wall crumbled between us in the bed in the middle of the night.
And when you lay your head on my head, on my shoulder, on my leg, I feel the weight of your world on me, a world made of uranium. The past pulls on you, tugs on you, fatigues you. Your battle scars are not from bloody wounds, but from burns. From fires that flashed in loud and bright pains that, though I cannot see them on your porcelain skin, I now know scars you deep. And I would have never guessed your icey blue gaze could be lit in a blaze of fierce heat and violent flames.
And what can I do to extinguish the scorching sparks that have tattooed your hands in its blaze?
Just before I fall away, you hold me tighter. Just before I look away, you look and see the future. And I can see the embers in the texture of your eyes, scratching the surface of the ocean in your eyes, creating waves from a storm you sense may come. I know you wonder if I'm afraid.
The past is fire. The future, a storm.
But what about the now?
It feels quiet. Warm. Safe.
I think it might be time to escape.
Because I'm not sure if it's quiet. Warm. Safe.
but you ask for the one thing only someone like me can't walk away from.
In the dark shade that fills a open-windowed bedroom just before midnight, you breathe your last request:
Believe in me.