#kkwords

[chouxx]

135 !

135: sing to me, please. 

jimin sang and sang and sang, because that’s what he does - did.

sea-goers find leisure in a certain wane of the moon, but they don’t ever recall it enough to name it. forgetting words like they don’t exist until the mouth draws upon for their help again in recreation is much like the voyagers return to land - the ground isn’t quite ground, as a tooth in a dream isn’t tooth but lost pocket change (or spread legs, as freud would deem it).

but all that posh knowledge is nonsense to taehyung, no one ever needed to tell him how to spin the compass anyway. the whistle in the salty breeze taught him, or something like that. whimsical kid, off-tune in everything but music, plenty of jargon the old timers would sip on with their half past five moonshine. 

besides, taehyung had better things to look out to from their return: butterscotch cookies, jungkook’s stories about who he beat at hopscotch so he could protect big brother tae’s turf, and jimin. always jimin, at least. sometimes the plate was just crumbs by the time he was back and jungkook was too busy for stories, because stories meant words and words meant concentration and concentration meant staying focused and-

jimin. 

there’s a certain art to naming (nomenclature, but taehyung rather use a mouthful than remember that) that he thinks he’s mastered undoubtedly, because names meant a lot and taehyung lives in a world that means a lot. transitive property explains the rest.

so jimin. ah yes, just right.

jimin.

jimin, with his high notes and unprecedented crescendos - not quite soft evening waltzes or the lull of the tides, but earnest and persistent waves that kept taehyung’s eyes open even through the sinking sunset. songs that were meant for him only, because when jungkook would sleep in for the night, jimin would come another day. selfishness came in pairs, taehyung supposes.

jimin, a bit cocky on those morning calls because whenever he would miss a note, he would wait to come back almost sheepish on the get-go. but taehyung would listen, so it was all the same.

jimin sang and sang and sang, because that’s what he does - did.

but a sailor couldn’t be a boy forever, and a nightingale’s song couldn’t live longer than the nightingale.

and so, tae went to sea again.

[chouxx]

heartbeat

i miss the sound of the sea, foam at my ankles and whispers on my toes, the horizon of crashes, the mayday of the bay, but was, is, home.

[chouxx]

à la carte

festering children on merry-go-rounds, ticks and tocks tossing on their tame tails ; their crumbs lie on the plastic manes, cotton candy hardened and all, but never dished.

[chouxx]

which end of the palpable sea listens to the mumbling child, catches his breakfast, and waves a hushed goodbye? the boy knows, conceives, the invitation from there; he draws the cracked seashell down towards both earthly blues, and sighs.

salty flow sinks through his hands—he sighs at the faltering sun too, nearing sea. the pale tide stares at the boy’s knees, down and callused, kisses them with streams, catches his shell, and leaves the invitation. but the boy cannot yet say goodbye.

in the humble morning his goodbye to the seagulls, bearing only sighs and whistling the invitation, echoes faintly to the sea. the boy reaches in, curious, catches only his unshined  form dipping down.

it is only scaling past light when down the boy ventures, seeking no goodbye in slippery breath. the shell he catches, gnawed at the rim where homeless sand sighs, drowning at coarse, empties in the sea. he whispers again, the invitation.

mumbling no more of invitation, lest dull bubbles beat him down, the boy weeps to the shell goodbye. but he is here, adored by the sea, more than the sailors’ wispy sighs, more than the sunken catches.

he catches his breakfast, brings him down, clear with invitation is his goodbye to all the boy’s sighs in the sea.

[chouxx]

now

sprawled on velvet with cherry stems loosely sewn on thighs, a portrait of violet dimples flashes in the blood; the clash in vibrancy  clots with vivid laughter – the waning moon snickers, lazing in content.

[chouxx]

birthday

we exist in a perpetual childhood, lifting paper to song and song to speech and speech to eulogy. but so does the pigeon, dividing the sun from the lamppost and the lamppost from the bough and the bough from the oak.