SINDAY DESERVES A SMOOCH! SEND 👄 TO KISS MY MUSE
he remembers things in hues, cold neon or black; the GOLD on the crease-lines of his palms looking more like BLOOD than dazzle— and wide-eyed looks he’d never received a dime for in his short-span life. he had broken down his glass-wall functions, and did what his heartache told him; protect them. the blue, split-smeared casing came down for his scratched hands, and he’d thrown them without mercy into someone else’s face in what he thought as a HEROISM, not horror. he’d been wrong, and not even his charge saw it as an act of fate stepping in. he’d reached out his hand to them, asked for their favor, and they saw his awakening as an act of sin in god’s metal garden.
he’d been explaining to her; something he hated doing about the fashionable fable of DEVIATION, and felt the spark-crackle of overflow in his head, memory mashing into memory and noise recorded over each other. he tries so hard to remember, but sometimes its JAMMING, a tape caught in the reel that just keeps pushing, pushing, spilling into spaces it shouldn’t reach and catching in all functions; making scratches and high-pitched sounds and ruining image by image the caption that it held, till nothing but nick wounds and nail marks have dug themselves in, and ruins it on record. it’s always that same memory too, the near FIRST one.
yellow blips, panic rings go calm at her coaxing, lola’s a kind soul in the world of the soulless. he listens in, to her voice and the creak and drip of salt-water, and watches the glitz faze from the corners of his vision to her face at the center. he’d been at the tail-end of a sentence, and he’s forgotten how it started, and found that he’s holding oxygen he doesn’t need, as if to cling to every semblance of reality that isn’t a record scratch or bright light. after holding her sleeves in his hands for a while, and knowing their fabrics are solid, he mumbles quiet thank-yous in the form of apologies, and promises to keep his thoughts buried. for a long time, he holds her look, until a genuine ‘ thank you ‘ is offered to her, and the most careful proof is pressed to the crown of her head, where her curls bounce back to retaliate like he’s insulted them. it’s what he knows of thankfulness, care, concern. kiss-and-make-it-better tactics he’s been ‘ raised ‘ on, to tell they fix EVERYTHING, from skin-need to heartache, and everything that fits in-between. it might be too much, but to him it is probably not enough. but he’ll keep his quiet, gentle gaze until the pulses of his blue-blood ease, and his light slows back to blue. sometimes, emotions are overwhelming.
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