blackheart ➵ m. clifford

➵ seven

➵ jett

He was lucid. Vivid. Unforgettable. He was like Winter’s first snowfall, and Spring’s first wildflower. He hid no flaw from my eyes, and every inch of him seemed so interesting that I couldn’t help but feel drawn to it. He was like seeing life in different colours. He was red and he was green and he was indigo and he was violet and he was everything that filled the once dull and black crevices of my chest.

Even though his skin was translucent and he wore black from his head to his toes; Michael bled colour.

He brought a certain kind of brightness into the ghostly, grey canvas of my brain, and with every footstep the two of us took, there was a splatter of red or blue or pink or yellow across the monochrome delirium. My head was filling with hue upon hue and I was so close to putting all the pieces together to create something that was entirely new to me.

Feelings scared the shit out of me.

It wasn’t that I had feelings for Michael, but he made me feel things that I could only really describe as feelings. I felt the painted butterflies in my stomach, and I felt the inked explosions in my veins. I felt the urge to be alive. Those were feelings. There was no breeze but his breath in my hair, and there was no cold except the one outside his arms.

And in his arms I was, the two of us tangled together in the grass as dew began to kiss the blades. Michael’s lips would quiver as he spoke, and his tongue would dip out to warm them. Every word he spoke left me mesmerised, like he was something entirely astronomical to me. He wasn’t from my world, but I felt like he belonged in it. Words turned to smiles and smiles blossomed into laughter.

Silent footfalls became scuffing steps, and stepping over litter turned to a hopeless game of kick the bottle, while the moon shone like a beacon and the wind sang in our ears like a lover. We were nothing but radiating happiness, a pair of kids grinning so wide that our cheeks hurt, the streets almost too tame for our wild hearts. His dark hair was a mess, but so was he, and so was I, and we were one big mess, but we wouldn’t change it for the world.

“You know what this reminds me of?” He questioned, tilting his head to the side like a curious puppy. “When we met in July.”

He turned back to look forward, kicking at the pebbles on the pavement and shoving his fist in the pockets of his jeans. Michael was right; even though the seasons had changed and the stars had realigned, it was like we were living that night over again. It was dark and frigid and no one was around to judge us, and it was just me and Michael and a joint to share between us.

Smoke curled out from under his lip as he propped them open, mingling with the air and disintegrating to nothing as he exhaled. At first, I vowed to myself that I would never touch a joint, never, but watching as Michael’s tongue flicked over his lips and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he rolled his head back, I’d never wanted it more. He looked euphoric and collected and everything that I wasn’t.

I watched as he lifted it back to his lips, holding it delicately between his fingertips like it was some sort of treasure. His eyes fluttered closed as he took a drag, before his lips parted and he turned to look at me, smoke fanning across my face no softer than the breeze. He watched me chase it, amusement washing over his face as it filled my once virgin lungs and went straight to the front of my brain.

His muscles became taut as my fingers trailed from the crease of his elbow to his wrist, and I could feel his eyes burning into my skin as I dipped my fingers into the pocket of his jeans. Heavy breaths left his chest as I pulled his fist from his jeans and intertwined our fingers like two pieces of a puzzle. My grip on him was just as tight as his grip on me, and with our hands tied together, I’d never felt more complete.