Lumière

inhale.

exhale.

a white puff of smoke leaves his lips slowly.

this is his way of coping, savoring the pain.

it’s been months.

she left him. again.

and here he was again, in this dingy, dirty club.

music too loud.

atmosphere too hot.

his escape.

every night he came here, made the same stupid choices.

drugs.

sex.

alcohol.

his healing.

he hated himself for it, yet he continued in this downward spiral of unhealthy mechanisms.

he craved the short-term euphoria, the inebriation.

–

heated, rushed hands on his skin.

the burn of tequila stinging his throat.

the euphoric feeling of marijuana entering his bloodstream.

–

he was fractured, the pieces bandaged together with regrets and bad decisions.

–

he sat alone in a booth in the back of the club, swirling his usual in the clear glass.

nobody gave a shit about him, he knew that.

that’s how he ended up here in the first place.

a woman walks over to him, a swing in her hips.

shooting the liquor down his throat, his eyes darkening.

she holds her hand out, he stares at it, contemplating.

he crushes his glass with his other hand, blood pouring out of his palm.

his vision fades and his body hits the ground, unconscious.

life moves around him, ignoring the shattered soul on the floor.

when we wakes up an hour later, on the dirty floor, he’s

alone.

f, he writes, black ink seeping so deep into the dogeared page of a leather-bound notebook it stains the other side with the abstract bleed of a broken heart. you always hated whole ones anyway.

u, he scribbles, to the slash of metal music playing from somewhere deep in the shadows nearby. it intoxicates the night, a catharsis as dark as the hearts your lips loved to leave across his hipbones.

c, he draws, with the same kind of explicit detail he could still draw the soft outline of your bent and naked body pressed against the frosted glass of his studio door, smeared lipstick, cheap absinthe, and erotic art.

k, he stutters, pulling the darkness of his hood down low over his eyes, shame hot on his fingertips as he tries to forget the way you always sucked them as you came, “… you write love songs about me with these, baby?”

l, he confesses, lost to memories of pressing his lips to yours breathlessly, barely holding on. he’d never truly had a home until the moment he felt your heart beat tickle his tongue for the first time.

o, he stabs, as swift and sweet as your last touch had stabbed his heart. tears on your cheeks and salt on his lips, he’d fucked your pain away and you’d still left. had you always lied when you said the gun was never loaded?

v, he numbs, as neon light bleeds wilting roses and the bones of his fingers twist between the love-red lace of a thong woven with beauty. he wonders if you’re with someone else tonight, and it almost kills him.

Some nights I wish to wake up to you…

Wake up in that studio…to see your silhouette from the glow of the computer screen…

Wake up to the soft blare of your headphones as you rub your chin in thought…

To see you glance at me from the side as my hands run over your shoulders..

Your face so close as you smile at me…

Your lips gently pressing against mine as you pull me into your lap…your shirt just barely able to cover my ass

Mumbling against my lips as you ask me if you woke me…

Your fingers dancing over my bare thighs as I shake my head no..

That small smirk as you focus back on the computer screen, one hand resting on between my thighs as you work

Just a night where I can be with you while you work…work on those love songs, those heavy beats, the songs for our ears only…