It’s about a boy (pt.6)

A long pause and I end the call. I divert my gaze, my thoughts. The leaves are tapping at my window again. The wind pushes them back and forth in a flowing tide. I watch, looking up to the sky light, the crisp edges stroking the glass. I want to zoom in and capture the moment the orange scrapes the window and I want to listen to the sound it makes because I don’t know what that sounds like and that’s odd because I’ve seen it so many times. That is odd isn’t it? I’ve seen it so many times yet I don’t know what it sounds like. As I stare upwards, I lay in the cocoon I created in my hours of slumber. My hand a pillow, my stomach the mattress and my arms a blanket.

And he didn’t need to text to say he was coming.

And he didn’t need to knock.

And he didn’t even need to say anything.

Instead, he lay down beside me and took my blanket and wrapped his whole body in it and he took the pillow and he placed it next to his own. And upon the mattress he rested his head and we lay there till the curtains filled with light and the storm subsided. Our bodies meshed together in fickle embrace. If an artist were to look down at us from this skylight, he wouldn’t know how to paint us. The lines of our bodies are blurred and frayed. As if dropped, our skin merges and shallows into the carpet. Our eyes closing, bodies breathing, minds at ease with the promise of another day paced to each other’s heartbeat.

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