Purple Bones

The entire night is a secret, from meeting behind that sketchy Wal-Mart and sharing kisses like it had been years rather than hours, to sneaking in the house, hands never leaving skin until it’s half past three and the haze clears.

It’s tense; it always is. Anticipation sucks the oxygen out of the room, but waiting is better than the words that follow; hopeless secrets divulged to a hopeful heart; desires that press the limits of insanity. Because that’s all sanity is, a limit.

Lips curl and vocal chords tremble. Here it comes.

“Sometimes.” A pause for a long-awaited breath, a reprieve from the waves of uncertainty. “I just want to cover myself in bruises.” This pause is for dramatic effect; those precious molecules of air have been used up, it seems. “Bruises so deep my bones turn purple.”

Silence stretches like a too-small blanket, trying to comfort but leaving pieces bare. Exposed. Responses come and go, none of them right, none of them enough, and the blanket shrinks. Faltering breaths and too-fast hearts pull in the darkness until one hand finds another. They’re unspeakably inadequate, but the words escape.

“Yeah.” Hands tighten, bodies shift closer. “Me too.”