“When am I going to be able to talk to you? I want you to tell me that much, at least.”
NORWEGIAN WOOD STARTERS : accepting !» @orionin
they meet on paper, in fragmented letters and dialogues swept up and consumed in the wake of daylight. she remembers him by the fragrance of oolong and crumpled paper, ink-stained fingertips, lines of poetry. bukowski at two in the morning. morning is theirs for the taking; their well-kept secret.
her eyes are heavy when she comes home from a particularly long day— everything seems to ache, and her mattress creaks in protest when she lets herself fall onto it. a sliver of moonlight has spilled in as if it’d been carelessly knocked aside, painting her wrists white when she stretches her arms out and over her head. she’s drifting off when a dull buzz sounds by her ear. new voice message, reads her phone. she skims the unfamiliar number. presses play.
when am i going to be able to talk to you? i want you to tell me that much, at least.
it’s three am when she sends her reply, voice grainy and distant, thin as smoke. “wait for me.” when she finally falls asleep, the world is silent. in her dreams, he’s in a train, a blur of motion and sounds that slip out of her reach.
(in her dreams, he’s the one who leaves first.)
