Unmoral

There are better ways of forgiving someone than taking a step back and sharing excuses with your brain as how it never would have worked if you hadn't mentioned the pain in their invisible alter-ego, the eggs shells around his house or the naughty remarks about themselves that sometimes crossed your eyes before you could stop yourself.

This isn't a formulated exercise from old lives that could have been yours, Ryan stayed behind in the options that led him to the split -to more cigarettes than is humanly possible in a week, to the stains on his eyes- for too long and now he needed to accept that it was irrevocably impossible to be stuck in his dirty little world forever.

The thing is, you see, there is no thing, this is not a cliché.

But by saying that it automatically turns into one.

Ryan is oddly fascinated by little humans, kids, children and how they can look morbidly disturbing in certain situations until he remembers what he does the best and starts scribbling furiously on a wrinkled notepad about nature and weather. About gentlemen and brides. About the sky and hospitals. About anything that can be used only so many times by him before it turns into something that everyone expects to fall from his lips, easily inter lapping with smooth chords and a fragile voice that has never owned a spotlight.

He has never owned as spotlight and it won't change.

Lately he has been lazy about his body, lazy about his ribcage that seems to become noticeable as the weeks pass by. he has been lazy about the lyrics. lazy about sparkles and songs he does not longer remember the name of.

Ryan has turned into a lazy halo of smoke moving through crowds too big for him to handle, resentment too big for him to hold.

Alienated too long ago to care.

He has tried -oh, don't try to say he doesn't have because you don't know, you'll never be able to know- to brush off the itching sensation that has been left over his face ever since he held to his last thread of hope right after his friend's wedding. Although it doesn't sound right to call Brendon a friend he can't help, humans are animals made out of habits, they both know that the term 'friend' is a catch. They have never been friends, the last winter they spent in each others company was enough proof to show them both that their misconceived relationship was as steady as a flailing building that has homed too many murders in its lifetime.

Acquiescence is now his newest motto and that's why he accepts his rat hole and doesn't try to climb up to heaven were he left Brendon a few months ago.

Ryan won't tell, he is too ashamed of himself and still to angered to tell.

Brendon in his flustered state had grabbed Ryan's waste, almost marking his hand print through the thin fabric with too much force right after the ceremony and had pushed the lanky man to the nearest stall before either of them could stall the situation.

Ryan wanted to stop him, he was already a whore from his old fame at the band they used to share and the success it brought.

Ryan could never grasp the man's train of thought.

Ryan wanted, oh he wanted, to laugh darkly and slap Brendon. He wanted to list the number of times he had dug his slender fingers on his almost non-existent flesh while watching him coo his new wife.

He wanted to tell Brendon the feeling of being starved because you would choke on anything that crossed your lips if it wasn't his dick.

He didn't.

He never did speak at the end.

"You would look so good on the shrine, pale skin all exposed," he had paused from shoving his tongue inside of the ghostly face with opaque eyes "you would look so good Ryan."

Ryan had thought for too long 'Yes i would' and now he was rotting away on the nothingness that came from everything.