Corduroy legs folded one over the other—shoulders slumped; I sit hunched overtop the pale-pomegranate sofa. January water moans over the glass panes in pitter-patter birdsongs and glossy bullets. I exhale, and run a handful of fingers through ruched, sweat-stained locks. My neck hangs heavy over an empty mug clasped between cockled shins. My wristwatch is painted 2:14 a.m.. The kettle whistles from the stovetop. It's been whistling for the past three minutes, nonstop.
I
drag a pasty thumb over the glazed handle, eyes hazy, mind wandering. I think
about you. I think about the bone structure beneath your honeysuckle skin. You
were angular. I remember when I first saw you from behind my crocodile frames.
You were wrapped in cable-knitted fleece, black milk in thick paper beside your
lap, tipping your chair-legs back in the corner of that one coffeehouse. It was
Open Mic—my first, I might add—and
I remember how the salt in my palms scratched over the letters on my
twice-folded parchment. I felt Blue Witch prickling up from beneath my socks,
and tried my best to tear off the heads before anyone saw; thankfully, no one
did. However, the poison still stitched into my skin, and I remember itching
for weeks afterward.
I
went up and read the one I wrote about the men on the tube from two years ago—the
one I still revise to this day. I remember the upturn in your cheek—always
asymmetric. You left your black milk on the tabletop to talk to me, to tell me
you enjoyed how the men were like safety pins, how the tube was like a plastic
glove, how it all reminded you of your Great-Uncle. You told me my work was
"thought-provoking". I told you it didn't really mean anything. You
said it didn't matter. I'm still unsure of what you meant by that.
You
dropped your eyes to the ground, then to my socks. Fragments of blue skin and
green wire hung over the rumpled cuffs. I watched you watch me; watched you say
nothing of it. You turned your chin up again, a bit to one side, asking if you
could read more sometime, whenever I was free to hang out or something and
maybe we could grab coffee or tea—whatever I wanted—too.
We met again two days later.
I
remember the first time my name crawled from your lips, "Aiden". It
tasted different to me from your mouth. Your voice was like licorice and thyme.
I'd always hated licorice, yet I could never get enough of the way you spoke to
me. I
think about the first time you allowed me to graze your framework, how I
thought the notches in your knuckles would be too sharp and sliver the cracks
in my rose-petal palms. I was glad they weren't. I think about how I haven't
seen you in almost three weeks, now. I turn my gaze toward my hands. Posey buds
melt in alabaster between each finger, their onion-skin layers peeled and
frail. I close my eyes.
When
you'd come over, you always wanted the same Earl Grey, but only in the white
mug. We'd drink, and you would talk. You'd tell me about your plans, about
your future. You told me I could write poetry or novels or whatever I wanted
about our travels. I told you I looked forward to it. Chrysanthemum heads
blister from my fingertips. I bite them off, spitting them into the mug—it
stings.
I remember how we'd
tangle together, you catching the Baby's Breath behind my neck, braiding chains
along my hairline. I remember how you'd run your milky tongue over all of my
edges, sealing the cracks in my skin with every word. I remember, it was a
Tuesday. You'd found the seeds beneath my arm hair, and called me your
"Lilac Boy" when you saw the purple tucked behind my ear. I twist my
neck downward. Spoonfuls of lupin and mauve-veined pansies crawl over my
sternum, itching.
I remember how
you'd planted Forget-Me-Nots in the small of my back after our sixth evening
together. For a while afterward, you'd always water them—meticulously—each
time we met, each time you interlaced your skin with mine, each time you rolled
thyme between my ears. I remember how I'd disentangle in your soil-stained
palms. Everything was good. My tailbone erupts in clusters of five-pointed
faces—periwinkle and marigold.
I
remember how four weeks ago, I'd seen your lips pressed over Ben's skin, the
two of you shuffling messily together in the dark of that one coffeehouse
during Open Mic. I remember how you were supposed to be seeing your sister that
night—how you were supposed to be with her,
because she needed you, because she needed to talk with you about something you
didn't want to share with me, because it was too personal, and I could
understand that. I remember how in my head, I'd seen nothing. How in my head,
you and I had gone off into the corners together. How in my head, I was the one
whose hair you had knotted in your fingers. How in my head, it was my name you
were exhaling, "Aiden, Aiden, Aiden." I remember how I walked home
alone that night. How when I got home I tried to make tea, but you had used up
the last of my Earl Grey. Dusts of dried and crippled lavender fall from my
criss-crossed heels, onto the hardwood floor.
I
remember when you told me. The dandelions at the back of my knees ached, and I
asked how long. You closed your lips, and ran that curdled tongue over your own
cracks. You shook your head. You said it didn't matter. You said it meant
nothing. You said, "Lilac Boy, I'm sorry." My watch reads 2:19 a.m..
I try to smooth out the lumps at the back of my mouth. Limp daisy petals fall
over and down my crumpled cheeks, down onto my lap, just like they'd fallen
back then. I remember what it felt like to wilt inside. I look at the cracks in
the mug, licking back the calcine in my throat. You said you were sorry. I told
you it didn't matter. You called me your "Lilac Boy". You said,
"Lilac Boy, I'm sorry." I still taste the licorice behind my ears.
"I'm sorry—I'm sorry—I'm
sorry—I'm sor—" it loops,
skipping a few times like it always has—like it always has,
for the past three weeks. "Lilac Boy, I'm sorry—I'm—I'm
sorry—Lilac—I'm—sorry,
Lilac—I'm sorry—Boy,
I'm sor—Lilac, I'm—Boy,
I'm sorry."
The kettle has been
whistling for the past eight minutes, nonstop.
