A M B I V A L E N C E

• J U N G H O S E O K •

E M O T I O N
감정

Trails of dust sparkled in the dull evening light,
casting invisible shadows over the cracks in the pavement.
Mauve bricks surrounded us, secluded us as
they vibrated to life with the echoes of
lost breath and adrenaline.

Boots, worn from countless hours of
practice and pain, coupled the sound,
converting what seemed to be evidence of
struggle into a symphony of rawness, of
emotion.

I gaped,
in awe of the way his body moved with
the silent beat. He was dynamic
like a wave, a typhoon upon a canvas,
with brushstrokes each precisely placed and
intricately mapped out to create the perfect
piece of art.

He was bathed in rhythm,
soaked in a palpable essence that
could only be described as the pure
light from his soul as his form spoke
a language that was better left
unsaid. Unheard—because it
couldn't be heard, couldn't be
comprehended by ears alone.

He was beautiful, astounding,
captivatingly arousing and so
unbelievably sinful
all at once.

I choked,
not on spit or bile or oxygen, but
his aura, that which rendered me
speechless. And as he slowed, as his
movement lessened in force and ebbed
into a gentleness indescribable,
I choked again.

Because he saw me.

He gave me an unforgiving stare, one
dripping in malice and spite, oozing
with guilt and sorrow and a loss unimaginable.
A loss of himself.

But that gaze was not meant for me—I knew,
he made it obvious as recognition crossed
his gaze and unclouded his mind, melting
the negative bindings squeezing his heart and
allowing his psyche to breathe
at last, to let go of the torment that used to
plague him so and replace it with something
far more positive, something far more powerful.

"How long. . .?"
He panted with heaving shoulders, letting
his words become dissolved in the air, knowing
that I had understood without them.

"Long enough."
My response met the tempo of
his footsteps as he slowly approached
the shadows where I stood.

He reached out to me, clasping
his long fingers around my wrist to
pull me into the lone stream of light, to
illuminate us, he and I, in what little
sunlight the day had left to give.

His lips quirked upward, a shallow attempt at
hiding the wounds still present in his eyes as if
his previous physical display was void, as if a
smile was enough to cover for the truth. And
I couldn't stop myself from shaking my head,
from giving him an obvious sign that
he didn't have to pretend.
He didn't have to hide himself, his scars,
his feelings—not now, not ever again.

"Be who you are, Hoseok."
My whisper made it's home in the nape of
his neck as I closed our small distance,
listening to the wild beat of his heart as
my words took root.

He met my affection with silence, but somehow
I could sense the tears fall over his cheekbones
as his defenses caved, as he surrounded me in
an embrace that screamed of honesty and
what could only be described as an uncensored
display of relief.

"Allow me to accept you, as you are,
and free yourself from Evil."

—Anonymous request. Poetic Narrative in reaction to Boy Meets Evil. Open interpretation; author's choice.

:) A little preview of what's to come in August.
Don't forget to request while you can!
xx