OVERWRITTEN

ncminseo‌:

@nckeon

—— the grief / is stuck inside me, a poisoned apple / that won’t go up or down.

she remembers in fragments: the white of his shirt. soft murmurs. the beat of his heart beneath her ear, a steady rhythm that anchors & lulls. fragments; pieces together that form a picture one-fifth out of reach. 

the belly of the moon turns as dawn approaches. she leaves him in bed, in warmth, limbs whittled with lingering moonlight. his shirt hangs on her frame and she takes comfort in his scent, as if it could chase away the ghosts nestling beneath her ribs. but they are stubborn creatures, raging with an altered love, biting at the tail end of her thoughts. 

last night was drowning the past in the bottom of a bottle - this morning is no different chasing numbness ( brother, i replaced your hand in mine with a gun. what would you think of me now? ). she’s fissured with blue & muted bitterness. half the glass is already gone when she hears his footsteps. she’s stuck in grief’s trapdoor, down a path she doesn’t want him to follow, doesn’t want to leave breadcrumb trails to. but it’s too late - bottle & half empty glass signalling to him like neon signs. 

“did i wake you?” she turns to face him, heavy gaze noting the tiredness in his features ( she shouldn’t have called him last night ), combing a hand through his mussed hair gently. it’s light & devastation, swallowing shadows to reveal fractures. & when dawn comes, it tears through echoes of mourning, her voice leaking tenderness. “it’s still early, love. go back to bed.” 

—— but what are we really guilty of? / the blood memory of what / we can’t forgive ourselves for.

the drawn curtains filter moonlight into darkness, silvered bliss that doesn’t reach them. his hand seeks for residual warmth beneath duvet, landing empty where he expects skin and he wakes. the kitchen light leaves a faint trail and he follows, unkempt hair reflective of the disoriented state he’s in.

he’s found her like this, just hours ago: a shot glass knocked over, rolling into several other glasses (misaligned, quiet clinking that echoes within his chest); the empty bottle stands loud and tall while she’s hunched over, her hand reaching for another before he takes it in his hold ––– firmly, somewhere between reassurance and insistence. they have their own story amidst blood debts, ghosts of pasts they keep out of sight ( out of mind? ). the only rule: don’t ask. yet this is vulnerability he hasn’t seen. concern is heavy hearted, a dead weight that sinks like stone, stirring from within. c’mon.

a hand through thick locks, steps slowing while his eyes adjust to the light. her muted silence stretches dangerously thin across distance; three strides, and he closes that space.

he finds her like this, now: sullen eyes, entirely consumed, half-filled glass in a hand while the other reaches for his hair. he dips his head instinctively, in seek of a comfort he’s come to recognise as a habit. a low hum follows, dragged one beat too long before his hand reaches to set aside the wine glass in her grip, out of her reach.

“come back to bed with me.” he has a thumb gently grazing fabric, arm around waist.

it’s chaos that bring order ––– her thoughts, his prying gaze; full of wordless questions. all but one.

“what is it?”

for @nckeon​.

red lips upturned into an amused smirk, she swirls the drink in her glass as she gets her dose of entertainment for the night. she’s in her usual booth, some woman’s arm around her waist and lips on her neck. it gives her the perfect view to spy on him by the bar. in any other situation, liying would hate to see him outside of work. it doesn’t help that they live in the same neighbourhood.

but this?

she’d take this over grocery store bickering any day.

the tension in his face, the eagerness in the young woman’s eyes, they don’t slide past her. it’s an act she’s witnessed far too often for it to still humour her. but it does, especially since she almost always came into play eventually. a wild card.

her eyes follow the unfortunate young woman as she gets up to head to the washroom, then they flicker back to keon, all alone in the bar. a hand starts to creep up her thigh, reminding her of the woman she came with. liying stops her, getting up to swoop in without offering her date any explanation, let alone a glance. 

she sits on the stool beside him, placing her drink beside his date’s. “i’m glad to see that your girlfriend’s taste in drinks makes up for her questionable choice in men.” a brief glance paired with a saccharine smile that should give away her intentions to the trained eye. “she seems nice.”

there’s barely a crowd on thursday nights. slow jazz fills the spaces amidst murmurs and gentle clinking, the ice cubes in his glass are already semi-melted. there’s a condensation puddle around the bottom –– what should’ve been less of a concern in the face of his company. except company is quite the mouthful when their conversation takes an interrogative turn. why didn’t you call me last night escalates into desperate hands reaching for contact, in seek of reassurance, recklessly insistent.

liying’s appearance no longer fazes him. it’s the timing that has him circling the edges. a sip at his whiskey, a grimace at the watered down taste –– she’s likely witnessed the worst of it all ( him ). he turns to meet her gaze, collar of his shirt highlighting a fresh scratch on the side of his neck –– far from anything sensual, it’s pure fury that stings.

“fuck…”

corners of lips twisted down, her apparent amusement would’ve been infuriating if not for the distraction of his request for a new drink.

“she was nice until i unknowingly showed up to dinner with her posse followed by thirty-two missed calls.”

it’s exasperation at its fullest, dismissed in part with the drink replacement, now half-empty. a brief glance towards liying, gaze alternating between her and the lady looking intently in their direction two seats down the bartop. time is ticking and his options are limited –– rather an effective end than a grating one that would very likely exhaust what’s left of his short fuse.

“it was like meeting the in-laws except there were ten of them.”

spotting said girlfriend exiting the washroom from across the bar sends him off his seat in a swift step, closing distance with a forearm resting atop the back of liying’s stool.