all i really want is for you to tell me you’re sorry and then give me a really big hug, that’s all. it doesn’t really take that much to receive my forgiveness—i’m a really understanding person. a little too understanding at times (especially with you), but it’s fine.
“What I want is to be needed. What I need is to be indispensable to somebody. Who I need is somebody that will eat up all my free time, my ego, my attention. Somebody addicted to me. A mutual addiction.”—Chuck Palahniuk
You’d sit with my t shirt swallowing you to your knees, tugged and stretched to cover your bottom from the sting of the metal. Every night you curled yourself outside of our bedroom window to rest on that fire escape, you would lift your hand and let just the edge of your thumb touch to my lower lip, waiting just a few breaths against your flesh before you silently dismissed our nest of sheets and legs. Every few steps on the tips of your toes you’d look back over your shoulder, hair stuck to your neck and wild from my palms. Some nights you’d balance on the sill and stare back at me, the same way I studied you perched against the bars. I ached to know what it is you thought in those moments, the only disrupt of silence the draft wrapping like arms around your waist, but I couldn’t bring myself to even so much as stir slightly to give away that I was awake, looking back. It was intricate watching you this way. It was these nights, every night, where I found you. A small marbled pot sat against your feet, the pot I had brought you home a Lily in from the apartment down the block. Whenever we had passed my hand would lose sight of yours and you would stand before the pane and stare in at the arrangement, small paper bags against striking petals, the woman’s shaky hands tying yellow ribbons to bind the stems. Most nights you’d light a cigarette and balance it between your fingers as if you wished it’d slip, but when the piece hit your mouth the smoke danced around your lips like teeth nipping for contact, tasting you just the same. Only after a few drags would you diminish it’s end, letting it fall to the pot. A habit of nicotine just to feel it’s breath escape you. Some nights you would bring a mug to balance between your thighs, and all it would take is the shuffling of feet against the streets beneath or a deafened bum from the Moon Cafe to leave you transfixed, the coffee chilling in your cup, your knuckles lining the brim again, and again, and again. And again. Some nights you kept yourself quiet company, humming pieces of the songs you’d defend you couldn’t stand. Rotten music to pretty lips. Some nights you would laugh, after your fingers touched to blemishes against your skin, teeth marks against your thigh. Then, always, you’d look up in through the window at me once more while your teeth clasped the edges of your lips to calm. And some nights you would cry. I never asked why, though those nights were hardest to stay in bed. But I knew that you needed that. You said you loved to cry. That it was the closest you could come to feeling everything and nothing all at once, catching the drops on your tongue. Some nights you would sit just briefly, others you’d prefer the streets company to my own. And as you’d return to me you would nestle yourself into the down, lifting your thumb to touch to my lip once more, watching until your eyes fell traitor, body still amiss where you had left it. You’d bring to bed with you the night air, scenting our bed and your skin, my skin, tangling your hair. I would press my mouth to your mascara-stained wrists, swollen eyes, and lastly my thumb against the edge of your lip, waiting just a few breaths against my flesh before letting it drag free, drawing them in to let the cigarette, the streets, you - rest along my tongue.