(Jimin POV)
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Why do you look so sad?
I thought that was supposed to be my part; a role forever plunged into my bones, strings attached to my ribs and sternums, carpals and phalanges, all needled to my skull in the perpetual motion of sorrow.
And you walk away, stepping away from our touching sneakers, not bothered that your untied laces might have you falling into a thousand pieces.
And I don't follow, ascending up the slicked thoughts, not bothered that my heart keeps beating faster and faster and doesn't have an explanation for why it is.
But it does.
There's always an explanation, or at least, a conjured up opinion that a bunch of bodies agree on, willing it into a fact.
Why, the explanation is not a few words that can ink a chapter or so, unfurling stanzas and paragraphs of magical realism in motion to my woe, hoping to make it just as magical as its writing style.
But literature doesn't minimize pain, and neither does poetry make it anymore prettier.
So when I see the tears reflect from the dusty, grey surface of the bus stop's box, I don't tell myself that it's due to the sadness that pooled behind his eyes,
I don't tell myself that it's due to the influx of coldness in my hands, I don't tell myself that it's all due to the selfish me who's fallen, only fallen, for someone more than I ever did for myself;
I don't tell myself anything at all.
Because maybe words are just as equally painful as silence is; that maybe our biggest downfall is that we mistake silence for words and make words from silence and use words for silence when all we ever fucking need to do is learn each other's language.
To hear each other's voice.
I call you then.
Desperate to hear your voice, the notion of your sighs and fumbling exhales, wanting to hear you on a scurrying train of rants of your favourite music and books, counting the amount of breaths you take between each crisp, pronunciation of the letter 'j',
the perfect way you say my name.
So say it,
say it.
Say that you've fallen for me too, say that you curl up each night with your phone pressed up against your cheek, waiting for me to call you.
Say that you adore saying my name and melt at hearing me say yours, say that you fear the occasional static on the other end of the line, panicking and thinking that the call's about to drop.
So say it;
say my name,
and I'll say yours,
and we'll say,
together,
"it's me."
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