my green

025 : sweet days & secrets

ac: blustock_

songs: when the sun hits-
slowdive, big jet plane- angus
& julia stone, fear- current joys.

"thank you all for coming," you stood; watched every person that sat on polished oak and wore the same dark color.

a tear was shed, but you immediately wiped it and gathered the pain in your fist; strangled it and threatened to kill it. hushed threats and muttered pleads to the final thing you had of him: that pain.

"um," you took a deep breath. "my light was the love he loudly, yet quietly, expressed. it powered every city in me."

in actuality, that pain, you didn't wish for it to vanish. you didn't hope that one day you would not feel it anymore, but instead, you prayed that it'd remain with you. you shut your eyes, chanted a prayer to yourself until your brain got sick of those words: this pain is all i have left of him, so let me keep it.

"i'm sure everyone who knew him, could vouch for this: he loved to love," that was when another tear rolled on your cheek—pressed powder washed clean—and landed to be absorbed by the page you wrote. "it was his favorite thing to do."

you let that tear be seen by everyone who sat in rows before you. you wore him—that pain, that tear—how you've always worn him; gracefully.

before

the ripples in the water tell a tale of summer; a prepubescent one with quiet shouts and loud silences. one with fingertips that graze the skin of a boy, that stain his tan complexion with droplets of a warm rain shower. where a girl is greeted by winds that carry the scent of saccharine flower gardens.

in this tale, after the summer shower, all that lies is what's stripped from your pores and what remains of you two. he sees you for all that you are; this cosmic explosion, full of the energy and elements that cause him to exist. eren, he's this newly birthed world; free of malice and full of purities. not ruined, but intact.

his laughter is distant, muffled, crumbled in between your damp hands and safe kept. it is smooth against your palms, heavenly in your ears, erratic in your ribs. the sound of him makes you smile; makes you feel like the approaching season belongs only to the two of you.

the shaven water rocks mold his steps. they curve the arch of his feet, your feet. and your hands are his in this moment, belonging in the gaps of them. the interspaces where you wrap yourself around, you've lived there before. the emptiness that upon reflecting on isn't so empty; not when your radiance nestles in those tight spaces.

"—three, four, five—," he counts.

and you watch a drop of water run along the bridge of his nose, intersect his scar for a split second, before it breaks free from him; it creates a ripple in the surrounding waters.

"—six, seven, eight—," his eyelashes are wet, soaked by the oath to never let this be the last time you experience the end of a spring at a nearby lake.

it's all a silly game he made up on the spot, one you have already forgotten the name of and rules. he enjoys it, your hands slipping with his, your laughter overbearing his with strings of celebratory confetti.

can he feel your eyes linger everywhere but at the ripples around your ankles? how you watch him with gapped lips and wet cheeks; with drenched tendrils of hair that stick to your neck and practically beg to be swept away by him, by his delicate hands?