A Little Bit Screw Loose
while he hums and laughs.
He talks of how his dreams always consist of him dying, always in beautifully tragic ways. Like his heart actually breaking, splitting into two while his fingers tangle into the sheets, silent screams coming from his throat. Or in the desert, his toes buried in warm sand, the sun beating down against his skin, and he just sort of melts or something. His arms spread wide and tears streaming down his face like he’s the next Jesus Christ.
When he wakes up, his thoughts are broken, scrambled like a kaleidoscope. And I am there, pressing the pads of my fingers along his cheek bones, directing him back to reality. Kissing his lips and smearing his tears in hopes that today won’t be a bad day. “Hey, hey, it’s alright,” I say when his eyes lock on mine. It may not be the truth, but I hope and silently pray anyways.
Slowly, the recognition leaks into his body, his fingers relaxing around my wrist. “Sorry,” he mumbles, pecks my lips and then says, “I get kind of… out there,” with a wave of his hand and a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. I nod, telling him that it’s fine before pushing his hair away from his face. He wraps his arms around my neck and pulls me in for another kiss, our mouths slightly open with his leg tossed over my hip.
The majority of our population would say that he’s crazy, or that he was born with a screw loose. They will stare as he mumbles to himself, tell their children not to go near that man because he keeps glancing over his shoulder and digging his hands into his pockets. I can’t say that I disagree with them either, because he does have his moments, but there are also times when he’s like this. Like this, when his skin is warm from sleep and there’s a pillow crease along his jaw, his fingers ducking down the collar of my shirt while he hums and laughs.
“Today’s going to be a good day,” he mumbles against my mouth and his skin is warm and smooth like porcelain beneath me. I grin and he grins too, his stubby fingernails digging into my lower back as I crack my eyes open to catch a glimpse of him. “Hey,” he says and his black hair is spread against the white of the pillowcase, small, purple bags under his eyes.
I brush the hair away from his face once more, say, “Hi,” back and then lean down. I kiss the corner of his lips before dipping my tongue into his mouth a final time. “Need your medicine?” I ask and I can feel the exhale of his sigh against my cheek.
“No, no,” he says in a rush and scrabbles my forearm when I go to leave, “just, um, not yet, yeah? Don’t feel like facing the day yet.” He squeezes my arm and then slides both of his hands to the nape of my neck, “Just lay with me, ‘kay?”
So, I do. I lay in bed with him, the sun shining through the window, warming up our skin as we kiss and giggle and gasp. Our bodies melding, twining while I try and act like I don’t hear the small murmurs that aren’t meant to be spoken aloud. While I try to fix the screw that’s loose by murmuring, “It’ll be fine, it’s okay, it’s okay,” and kissing him deep and slow.
His pale fingers sporadically digging into my shoulder blades, “I’ll be fine,” repeating like a broken record.
When he wakes up, his thoughts are broken, scrambled like a kaleidoscope. And I am there, pressing the pads of my fingers along his cheek bones, directing him back to reality. Kissing his lips and smearing his tears in hopes that today won’t be a bad day. “Hey, hey, it’s alright,” I say when his eyes lock on mine. It may not be the truth, but I hope and silently pray anyways.
Slowly, the recognition leaks into his body, his fingers relaxing around my wrist. “Sorry,” he mumbles, pecks my lips and then says, “I get kind of… out there,” with a wave of his hand and a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. I nod, telling him that it’s fine before pushing his hair away from his face. He wraps his arms around my neck and pulls me in for another kiss, our mouths slightly open with his leg tossed over my hip.
The majority of our population would say that he’s crazy, or that he was born with a screw loose. They will stare as he mumbles to himself, tell their children not to go near that man because he keeps glancing over his shoulder and digging his hands into his pockets. I can’t say that I disagree with them either, because he does have his moments, but there are also times when he’s like this. Like this, when his skin is warm from sleep and there’s a pillow crease along his jaw, his fingers ducking down the collar of my shirt while he hums and laughs.
“Today’s going to be a good day,” he mumbles against my mouth and his skin is warm and smooth like porcelain beneath me. I grin and he grins too, his stubby fingernails digging into my lower back as I crack my eyes open to catch a glimpse of him. “Hey,” he says and his black hair is spread against the white of the pillowcase, small, purple bags under his eyes.
I brush the hair away from his face once more, say, “Hi,” back and then lean down. I kiss the corner of his lips before dipping my tongue into his mouth a final time. “Need your medicine?” I ask and I can feel the exhale of his sigh against my cheek.
“No, no,” he says in a rush and scrabbles my forearm when I go to leave, “just, um, not yet, yeah? Don’t feel like facing the day yet.” He squeezes my arm and then slides both of his hands to the nape of my neck, “Just lay with me, ‘kay?”
So, I do. I lay in bed with him, the sun shining through the window, warming up our skin as we kiss and giggle and gasp. Our bodies melding, twining while I try and act like I don’t hear the small murmurs that aren’t meant to be spoken aloud. While I try to fix the screw that’s loose by murmuring, “It’ll be fine, it’s okay, it’s okay,” and kissing him deep and slow.
His pale fingers sporadically digging into my shoulder blades, “I’ll be fine,” repeating like a broken record.