#bod.

the bed will be welcoming, but before we sink, let’s swim with the crowd that passes by quickly. 

the sound of the car driving as if it will never stop and life will never be stilled. things stay a blur and he takes the long way home, the way relationships are fickle, come and go. 

he watches and in the second that he sees, he knows, he cherishes, he lets it sink in. but the second that it is gone, it is gone and the affection leaves with it, on to the next one that will pull his hand out of the window. 

he’s but a fleeting soul, the paper in the wind wrinkled that catches on you but leaves before you can tell if it’s scribbled on or empty, there’s no way to catch it. deflated are the lines of this paper plane, but there’s no way to catch it. 

he drives through the city, knowing that the only reason why he takes the long way there, is because he's fearing the admittance that there’s ease only in one and only place. 

then he settles and forgets the torments of letting himself be still. 

you’ve witnessed it,  now think, tom and jerry,  they have a purpose, here they are, friendly in their hunt. it’s friendly, it absolutely is, or else bloody war would have sprung from it, long ago

humans should learn from tom and jerry. 

“you think too much.” jc speaks quietly against the pen pressed to his bottom lip. he whistles atop of it, his eyes can’t break away from the jiggle of kc’s knee. bad habit. bad habit that just become habit and then they just become a part of one’s life and ticks. bad habit simply because it gives away who he is, what he is. it gives away a bit of himself. jc’s unable to let that happen to him.

his ticks, are just ticks. and who he is, they’re hidden within the stillness and the silenced rooms that never get opened. “to jerry the mouse, kc, listen, to the him cheese is the most delicious thing to exist, to tom the cat, mouse is the most entertaining and certainly delicious meal to hunt and to us, cheese or mouse, we’d never be that addicted to it.” 

it’s just how it goes. kc thinks and thinks and gets bothered and jc, he just soaks it in. if there’s irritation it has to glide over his skin, it will never make him fume. rather than cause smoke, it will arise as steam, pearl as sweat, drop as rain, and wash away as a river. 

“but just because the mouse thinks cheese is prestigious, doesn’t make cheese prestigious. just because summer is said to be golden, doesn’t mean it’s golden. it’s simply summer, why are you thinking of squaring it?” why do you think at all?

“huh, kind of hard when it’s marketed everywhere as just this one thing.” “yeah, but you’re your own person, don’t look at the market, look at you.” “i want me and summer to be as in the market.” “then you lose, because the market will never be you.”  “so am i wrong?” again with that word, so misplaced and misused. “never, summer is just a season like other seasons.” “still hate it.” “and it’s not wrong.”  “whatever the reason?” “whatever the reason.”

the fidgeting’s not stopping, it’s been slowing down between each question, answer, line, words. the clock ticks away, jc blinks a few. then kc does too, once though, “the fuck kind of comparison was tom and jerry, what the hell jc, what the hell, now i want cheese.” 

jc wakes up with a glass of water. the weather may be cold, or warm. but it’s always stale within the four walls of their apartment. kc wakes up mere minutes later. bedhead, brown to blond, standing side by side. they’re quiet mornings.

they move in the kitchen, the sound of rock rolls by soft from the radio station. guitar strikes, they struck. kc’s mouth moves first but no sound comes out. it’s a yawn. his hand does nothing to hide it. jc moves next, it’s a foot and it nudges behind a knee. 

not a word, but a grunt. 

the table is by the balcony, it’s lit with the sun. filtering through the curtains, the touch of it draws their shadows. the toasts won’t be left to turn cold, the butter melts atop of it. spread and wide and jc leans against the table.

he taps a finger. kc taps a leg on the floor.

a taste of the bread, the oil of the butter. thick, rich, lasting. 

the milk follows, washes. “write about the bread.” jc says, another mouthful in.

kc snorts, won’t stop chewing on bits of his toast. 

“it’s deep, admit it. bread first thing in the morning. the only thing that matters.”  the cup against his lips, jc smiles at the rim of it. looks up, kc is looking back. 

“you must really love that guitar of yours.”  silence as the seconds tick. but they don’t run for long. jc’s been playing with the rings on his fingers longer than they’ve beat him to his answer. 

“i don’t play the guitar.” his eyebrows is an arch, his lip a twitch up. the confusion that downs on the journalist is amusing. a lot of things are amusing. but it’s the way she halts and searches. or are the screws in her mind startled beyond the point of turning to find an escape out of this. 

the recurring joke,  who am i? doesn’t come out. the mood won’t lighten. he came in with a light hand shake, she was waiting with eagerness. he sat down with feather like gentleness, she got ready frantically. now he’s restless, leaning against the chair. he wants out. the sun is settling and he wants to find the shelter of walls. he wants his table and his knees up on a chair. he wants the shoes off, he wants the clothes open.

he wants air. 

“right,” a stammering mess, she’s sweating, pearls of it on her forehead.  “it gets confusing, sorry, even with different hair colour i still couldn’t tell who was who.” her laughter is jerked out. the damages to her throat has his fingers tracing line down his neck. gentle yet again. 

“is it true you can only sing?” “yeah, i am shit at everything else.” “except for the lyrics right?” 

she’s switched to question marks at the end of each sentence. back is the amusement. but it’s distant, he can’t taste it. what’s left is the memory of it. he’s got words for them in his head. they dance along with dulled longing and he slouches in the chair. 

jc hums.  she blinks. 

are you only good with written words? yes it was a question once. once.  “okay so, hum, some of your fans would like to know, ehm,” fumbling, it must be hard. having to get substance from voices and answers that still say nothing about who jc is. it must be hard. 

“i like to write, i like to sing. i am good at it, so why not do it. and there’ll be no talk of upcoming albums and singles. number one rule. i think it’s someone else’s turn now.” golden watch twirls on his wrist, almost just bones are the fingers tapping on its screen. “ten minutes each, right?” 

she nods, her tongue caught on her bottom lip. she looks disappointed, but relieved. that’s familiar. 

“it was nice to meet you, don’t worry about the little mistake. i sometimes forget which one i am too.” suddenly gentle again as he stands up and she does the same. but instead of shaking a hand, he’s got arms around her and her breath caught against his neck. 

you know how the bulge thing was a big controversy on tumblr like 3 months ago?