Work Text:
Beneath colours rotten in age,
Beyond long forgotten for beige,
Alone with half-written chapters,
Sitting still with slumped shoulders,
Was me
No, but stay—even for a moment—for a dip beneath today, a coffee should you obey.
Like times of old and times of new, with deeper rings beneath what was sleep-filled hues, they'll talk about their worlds to woo.
Hypocritical as I talk, hypocritical as I wrote, hypocritical as I knew. I know, I lie to you here just as well.
But stay—I tell you as I lift my eyes to plead, as you stand up from your seat. I'll tell you of stories, nothing particular of note, nothing of use in a world of repetition in every woe.
I won't thank you should you listen, only shaking my head in recognition for another fool liking things more handwritten. Or not.
Your drink rots at the counter—still as nobody, for whatever reason, has the same name—as another fool goes to taunt. It's good, just as I drink my mug of lukewarmth.
Water, milk, coffee, or tea, could you even see dripping from the outline of my lips?
Why would you even lower your glance?
You shouldn't open your eyes to every bruise, your eyes were wide (open) as I tell you. But you sat at my table, pulling the chair as you lowered and as I let you without whisper.
We're both aware, we both stare at each other with the same gaze, the same look in our eyes that tell us both: we have nothing else to do, and we're fools.
You and I just lied then, our eyes never parting as my mouth lied open. You whisper nothing at all, and I talk without walls. Perhaps you lied again, too, because I had without pause.
Beneath colours rotten in age,
Beyond long forgotten for beige,
Alone with half-written chapters,
Sitting still with slumped shoulders,
Was me in knitted clothing.
Drenched in the sunlit outside,
Wind-scratched as you came inside,
Turning your back against maples,
Walking past chairs and tables,
You found conversation in me.
You, me, and the endless sea of stories I etched into my veins and you came to view.