orlaindreas

 It lasts not a second before he is reminded of where he is. Light from the street traces the edge of the bed where he is hesitant to take up place. He knows that when he returns his hesitance will be read as being unsure of what must follow. He knows that he can't stand here idly. Not only that, but the room in uncomfortably cold. How odd would it be were he to browse through his book shelf? Not unsure of  whether or not he should enter his bed without first being invited, only distracted by a part of his room, of which he shows great interest; signaling, hopefully, that he has interest in what consequences his getting into bed will bring, a

The stolen glances out of countless windows - cars shops restaurants cafes the tram - make it more interesting to walk through the ancient streets of the embalmed city. Contemporary eyes are reflected through the 15th century artistry. No longer content with simplicity and decisive purpose. Careless, confusing, cold, coarse, and cornered the eyes are screaming. And from behind their glass fortresses they deceive themselves by searching for each other. Fighting the self-imposed isolation, though scared shitless of actually getting up and walking out.

It can't possibly be worth it. Not when it can't exist without doubt, shame, embarrassment, weakness, vulnerability, naivety, longing and loss. To instead stand in resilient defiance of its deceptive appeal should then be a much safer choice. A smarter choice. A sound choice. Not a braver choice. But then what's bravery in a world where one can not only sustain a physical existence, but live and feel without the need of veritable human contact. Bravery is obsolete, and therefore that through which bravery is found, can no loner truly exist.

'Guard your heart,' she leaned over and whispered to me as the night closed in on itself. 'You're too nice; he'll break your heart.' It won't be the last time, I thought, and selfishly knew that I wouldn't be able to stop. Not tonight at least, maybe tomorrow. 'i'm trying... i'll try.' There's always tomorrow.

How did I let myself lose sleep over you? Lose seconds, minutes, hours probably, if you add it all up. Hours. Hours worrying. Hours of regret. Hours of longing. Only to find you here, with your chestnut mug; blowing the steam off your too fancy coffee, in your favourite plaid shirt, giving me that smile. That god damned smile. And to think I was worried.

Traces of corrosive exhalations hang stagnant, resting upon the curve of my upper lip. The residue sickens and burns, but it won't be wiped clean. Take it back. Just once more to take it back, and then be done.

He slept alone that night, though every part of him longed for - He slept alone most nights. All nights. Night was in fact his and his alone. He shifted around aimlessly, hungry. Always hungry. Never not. It was cold; poor circulation. He understood no more why he was there. He couldn't make it out. He realized how, but he wouldn't. Instead, he stayed. They told him not to, but he didn't listen. He listened, but he couldn't follow. He couldn't take the lead. He wouldn't have to anymore. He could. Always could. Never not. Never should've, but he did. Once. Not twice. Should've, though. Wished to have, though. Willed t

Getting over you is easier than I'd been expecting. Sure, every once in a while I catch myself remembering the way your back smelled as I fell asleep holding you; but, what's in a smell? Particles and molecules that once received immediately cease to exist. It's odd then that I'm still able to pick it out, though, I hope, not for much longer. The way you would smile at me devilishly from beneath your sheets is also not proving to be a hindrance in terms of my moving on from you. It makes me smile; though, again only because it occupies a distinct place in the past, one of which I have no wish to extend any longer. I'm als

How different this night feels from the last with nothing at my side to warm me. Mechanical, functional sounds, not of the flesh but from that which, I guess, of flesh is born, do nothing to keep me warm. The sound of singular breath is wholly discomforting, suggesting that which is no longer there, though in fact never was. To the cold, which by all means paralyzes my exterior as well as interior. And for this I can give no comparison. No metaphor. No passage could be written that would be sufficient in describing what this loss of breath means to me. Your presence is, most unfortunately, not tantamount to