#by d

[endlessandrea]

This is what text could feel like.

[junkiren]

the thought of tomorrow in a city of ashes, cold buildings made up of iron, cutting the sky. smog suspended near the highways, blocking the clouds. people without a smile, faces you’ve seen before with names you can’t piece from person to person. a city where everybody comes from somewhere and nowhere to become something; tokyo, wasn’t it? right. living in the real world, they say. the makeshift “big apple”, capital of the universe.

a city of no more. a haven occupiedーtested by one’s endurance against the struggle of it all. to become someone. a city where nobody is, truthfully, really “from”. and the question is on his lips, to move. to move elsewhere.

“to somewhere, some place. doesn’t even have to be fukuoka, just.. somewhere away from here.”

”yes.”

his lover says so far too quickly, agrees too swiftly. he knows his lover well; always trodding on eggshells in the matter of importance. the things worth pondering about in the years of still, young adulthood. to approach everything with caution. a beacon of hesitance, green light and all. it’s in his nature, the dancer.

“yes. yesーwhy, yes.. let’s.. let’s do it.”

rather unusual. the hastiness in his lover’s response, with eyes that possibly longed for a moment like this. a connection of some sort, one unspoken for so long in the blankets and sheets of “here is okay” and “here is fine, we’ll be fine”. he knows. junki knows, with his reflection in his lover’s dark brown eyes, he’d been waiting for reawakening.

“tomorrow,” he says. in his low voice, full of familiarity and warmth. he gathers the limbs of his lover. soft to the touch; delicate, roughened by the joints of years of expression. in the space between what separates his neck to shoulder, his lips press themselves on skin. “tell everyone you knew, so long.”

the morning of tomorrow they’ll discern. partly cloudy at dawn, sunny for the remainder of tuesday.

[junkiren]

A wound soberly heals after it’s been picked.

It tears at the surface, regenerates a careful moment after time. Presents itself in its glory; ugly, an irregular scar not from an accident, but of purpose. With meaning.

To remember.

Words for knives, daggers. Lips that once kissed, soothed. Create tranquil and dissolve, the Earth, soundless after the storm.

A lover’s warmth abandoned on the bedsheets. He awakes when the sun is highest in the corner of the sky. Prepares breakfast for two, having broken the barricades of his own self-regard. Olive oil and cracked egg shells, microwaveable rice, consuming time as it edges onwards. Dials up a loosely dubbed friend, colleague, his voice low as to not disturb. Writes a note. Closes the door to the apartment behind his back. When he goes out into the city is when Junki awakes.

The burden of two lovers. Days dwindling in July.

[junkiren]

daytime date on perendim, may 29th ‘20

[junkiren]

in mid 2019, kono junki had his belongings in boxes and had signed on a printed, dotted line. he was compelled to move closer to school. his upstairs neighbors, now wide eyed and unfamiliarly in one’s business where it doesn’t concern them, would blast early 2000s synth pop till it was sunrise. four years, four walls enclosed, it was time to move on.

his next move wasn’t all that impressive. rent is doable. most of the people who live on the street are either retired or elderly, which made property somewhat affordable.

he lives on the second floor with his boyfriend, and they often commute with their one car parked in the back. it’s a few minutes on foot to the nearest train station. 15 minutes by monorail to shinjuku, and an honorable 11 to ren’s dance studio. equipped with a front facing balcony of tokyo and all of its ruins, they live in a quaint residence all on their own. one bedroom, one bathroom, smiles and half a kitchen. it’s not perfect, but it’s theirs.

[bob-belcher]

[bob-belcher]