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Literature had never been Amon’s strong suit. Words eluded him often, only spilling from his lips too little, too late (in the shower after work, on his way home, always away, away, away). Written texts hardly swayed his heart.
Listening, though…he was good at listening.
As luck would have it, Akira liked to listen too (though she was much better at speaking). Seidou liked to listen to Akira, and so he came along with them on late Wednesday nights to a bar on the corner of Main and Fourth. Akira would perform her slam poems on stage, Amon would drink coffee or whiskey, and Seidou would write tiny notes to himself (stringing together a love poem years in the making).
It was always peaceful, but Amon wished someone would pull on his heartstrings. Everything felt cold to him lately (after losing Harima, losing Mado, watching people slip away). There was a yawning emptiness in his heart.
He was afraid.
Tonight he longed for company more than usual and had bribed Seidou to sit closer to the stage with him. There they were pressed in amongst many other bodies, chairs and tables knocking into one another, and Amon could feel like he was part of something (just for a second).
“This piece is for a beautiful barista. For a woman who is hard to love.”
The next performer was saying into the microphone, drawing Amon’s attention with the bemused sort of sorrow in his voice. A skinny teenager with shaking hands was clutching the mic, his shaggy white hair falling into his eyes.
“You tried to change didn’t you?
Closed your mouth more,
Tried to be softer,
Prettier,
Less volatile, less awake,”
The kid’s shaking tapered off as he went on (a strange little curl to his lips, something empathetic and filled with self-loathing).
“But even when sleeping you could feel
Him travelling away from you in his dreams,
So what did you want to do, love?
Split his head open?”
Amon huffed a laugh and peered at Akira from the corner of his eye. Just as he thought she would, she was smiling the same strange little smile the performer was.
“You can’t make homes out of human beings.
Someone should have already told you that…
And if he wants to leave
Then let him leave
You are terrifying
And strange
And beautiful
Something not everyone knows how to love.” *
Immeasurable love was spilt into the last line. Amon could hear it threaded through every word and it made his heart hammer in his chest. A choking gasp pulled his eyes from the stage towards Seidou. He had tears on his cheeks and…
He was staring right at Akira (the same love in his eyes that suffused the speaker’s voice).
It seemed that Seidou had finally found the last line for his poem (Amon smiled to himself, a strange little curl of the lips, and packed up for the night. Those two could use some privacy).
Amon wasn’t sure why he came back. It was another Wednesday, but he was alone. Akira and Seidou had some things to work out, needed some time to themselves, and Amon was…
Still empty.
The flickering delight he had felt, the stab of loneliness, the aching bittersweet understanding of the week before couldn’t sustain him. Depression was a vicious cycle that never really let him go. So he was here, trying to get some company, and hoping the disappointment of not getting it wouldn’t crush him to bits.
“Hello again. Tonight is only my second visit here, but I’m really grateful for my reception last time.”
A familiar voice floated from the loudspeakers and Amon unconsciously relaxed in his seat.
“How often do any of you think about the intersection of our worlds? Of grief and joy? Love and pain? I find it’s on my mind all the time.”
The skinny kid from last week chuckled to himself, a nervous sound, and wiped sweaty palms on his jeans. His gaze (wide-eyed and afraid) swept over the crowd and landed on Amon’s table. Awkwardly, Amon flashed the kid a thumbs up that seemed to lift his spirits (making the yawning emptiness retreat a little further).
“Afterword,
I found under my left rib,
The most curious wound.
As though I had brushed against
Some whirring thing,
It bleeds secretly.
Nobody knows its name.”
The kid lifted his shirt slightly as he recited, showing off a long thin scar over his kidneys. His fingers caressed it like a story lay there.
“How do any of us live in this world?
One thing compensated for another, I suppose.
Sometimes what’s wrong does not hurt at all, but rather
Shines like a new moon.”
Amon thought of the moon hanging overhead the night he had found Mado’s corpse. The knife-point pain of his loss had hidden the much slower poison of Eyepatch’s words. How he had whispered,
‘This world is wrong.’
Echoing Amon’s own sentiments as he fled into the night. It made him shudder to think of it now.
“I want to say something,
So simply about love
Or about pain
That even as you are listening
You feel it
And as you listen
You keep feeling it.
Though it is my story,
It will be common.
Though it is singular,
It will be known to you
So that by the end
You will think - No,
You will realize -
That it was all the while
Yourself arranging the words.” **
Though the kid’s poem last week had much more impact, this poem settled heavily in Amon’s gut. It seemed to have hit the rest of the audience hard as well, judging by the long pause before people began to snap politely.
The kid (what was his name?) stepped off of the stage and wove through the crowd. It was as if he were disappearing before Amon’s very eyes (like he would never listen to him again). Driven by the thought, he caught his arm.
“You did well tonight. Both nights, really.”
Amon congratulated him, injecting as much sincerity as he could into his voice,
“Could you tell me your name? Or if you’ll be back? I’d like to hear you again.”
The kid, who actually looked much older (20 or so?) up close, grinned like the rising sun. It warmed his whole face and softened the edges of grief (so familiar) that surrounded his mouth.
“Kaneki Ken.”
He replied, extending his dark-nailed hand,
“And you are?”
It was the start of a strange friendship (and a love poem years in the making).
*Warsan Shire - For girls who are hard to love
**Mary Oliver (assorted)