Rivals For Breakfast

41| Peace

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He's leaving again

He always seems to leave.

It's fine... really. I only mind because I'll miss him.

I don't complain for the sake of peace. A little word that I almost forgot existed. But in the past few months, things have been peaceful. Peaceful like hibernation, peaceful like the deepest darkest part of the ocean, peaceful like the soul of a believer resting in its coffin. Or like a snowy Christmas morning when everyone's tucked into their beds, a thick coat of white blanketing like the sweetest of frostings covers the streets, and it's beautiful because no footsteps have blemished its perfection. Crystallizing snowflakes get frozen in time, the crisp air sucks away the screaming of the silence, and not a thing stirs. It's been peaceful like that.

But at the same time, I've been anything but at peace. My very being tugs at my already taught strings. It's called tension.

I can feel my chest constricting at the weight of it all. It's addictive the way he licks my mind. The feelings grow at a rate faster than I can handle. They're a tumor on my breastplate. Every time I look at him, or his skin brushes against mine I sink a little deeper. A simple blink of his eyes brings my solar system to its knees. It's like drowning in a pool of ice, the little spaces between cubes give me just enough oxygen to breathe, but things are melting quickly and I'm running out of time. Then again the weight could crush me anyway, but the cold is more likely to suffocate me first. It's a sizzling type of fear. The fear that all of me, my thoughts, my lies, and my wishes can never reach his glow. A glow so black it turns hematite into butterflies. It's the fear of losing him, of not knowing, and of a red hot rejection. It's the fear of heartbreak. I mask it well, yet I dwell in it, swimming to its depths and inhaling its bitter soul.

How can drowning feel so good, like dripping honey into a pool of acid, one slow drop at a time. Like painting the landscape of the mind, purple dipped in black, it's that tiny stroke of yellow like the core of daisies. A yellow that can start a spark, a spark that can start a flame, a flame that belongs to a seething hot fire, and it burns. The fear that I don't fare up suffocates me slowly. But then he pulls me back up when I breathe his air.

We're supposed to be asleep, he'll be exhausted on the plane tomorrow. Instead, we sit entwined, my legs straddling his, my head rests against his chest. The tv plays in the background, I don't even know what's on. I rather listen to the thudding of his heart. He plays in my hair, untangling the knots from my ringlets. I feel secure because he's holding me, his fire keeps me warm.

"So why are you going to Switzerland?" I whisper, I've been choking down the question. I never know how he'll react, and I might suffocate if his limbs untangle from mine.

"Just business," he says calmly, his voice vibrates against the bone of my ear.

It's always just business.

I risk pulling away, looking nervously into his eyes. They never seem to fail at taking my breath away. Their energy can never get old. They tell stories of old and new, and places with so much depth and mystery even one who stares into them for a lifetime could never really know them.

"Don't worry about me?" He says, squeezing my cheeks together, until I'm left at an awkward pout.

"I'm not worried" I try to say. He chuckles and releases my face. I sigh. "I'll just miss you... do you know how long you'll be gone?"

He seizes my face again, kissing my lips softly, trailing down to my jaw now, and then behind my ear.

What did I ask him again?