#clementide

he had seen her, first, in january.

the exhibit had been lame and yoonjung had ditched him last minute for a date that promised to end in sex, rather than shared cigarettes in haru’s shitty studio apartment. he hadn’t blamed her. a part of him had been in the middle of wishing he had chosen sex over the exhibit, too (christ, it had been boring) -- when he saw her.

he saw her.

(he would draw her, days later. paint her, sketch her, mold her. a face frozen in shock. soft hair, pale thighs, pink knees. flowers in her arms. a sculpture in front of her that meant nothing, because she was the most breathtaking piece of art in that entire gallery that night. nabi, you came! haru remembered hearing a voice greet her. but how could you do this to me? he had listened to her cry in the stairwell.)

he sees her, again, tonight.

like fate. like a vision. 

she’s alone and she isn’t crying, and she’s all the more beautiful for it. but haru knows he ought to walk away. haru knows there’s no such thing as fate. haru knows --

“are you here with anyone?” he asks, despite himself. motions at the empty seat beside her. lets his gaze drop briefly to her wet mouth. her glass is almost empty. “is this seat taken?”

이번 생엔 너가 나를 찾았어.

우리가 어디에서 어떻게 존재 하던 우리 둘은 서로를 찾게 돼. (맞아, 우연이 아니야. 우연이라기에 너의 미소는 언제나 한결같고 영원히 머금을수 있는 진정제 같아.) 내가 태어나지 않았을때 부터 널 알고있었던것 같이 넌 그렇게 미소 지어. 알아, 뭔가 조잡하고 엉성한 운명에 대한 이야기 같단걸.

근데 말이야, 넌 초월적인 힘이란걸 믿어?

-응, 넌 안 믿어? -난 잘 모르겠는데. -왜? -그렇다면 우리가 여기서 이러고 있을까. 너무 볼품 없는거 아니야, 우리? -우리가 뭐 어때서?

우리가 뭐 어때서. 그렇게 말하면서 나를 바라보는 너의 눈동자는 잠잠한 밤 아래의 호수 같아. 별들을 담고 있지만 그래도 흔들려서 반영이 흐려. 근데 그 빛 만은 확실해. 넌 여전히 나보다 당당하고 확신에 차 있어. 우리가 어떻게 삶을 살던, 어떻게 하루를 보내던, 딴 사람들이 우리를 어떻게 생각하던 너는 전혀 상관하지 않아. 그러면 난 또 그런 너의 태도에 위로를 받고. 또,

이기적 이게 다시 한번 너를 내 가슴 한 언저리에 담아. (너가 허락한거야, 알지?)

-...그러게, 맞네. 우리가 뭐 어때서. -그래, 맞아. -뭐가 그렇게 뻔뻔하냐, 이지은.

내가 푸스스 웃으니까 너도 웃어. 맞아, 생각 났어. 넌 전에도 그렇게 웃은적이 있어. 근데 어제도 아니고, 작년도 아니고 몇십년전도 아니야. 아마 꿈에서 본것같은데 그것도 확실치 않아. 아마 우주비행궤도 어디선가 본것은 아닐까. 널 이번 생에만 알았다기엔 넌 너무 익숙하고도 아련해. 내가 너의 손을 잡기만 하면 넌 내 옆에서 사라지지는 않을것 같아.

(그러니까 내가 그 손 잡아도, 원망 말아주라.)

-우리 둘중에 하나는 그래야하지 않겠어? 넌 겁쟁이잖아, 겉으로만 단단하고. -...그래, 세상 당당해서 좋겠다, 넌. -응, 좋아. 그러니까 너도 그랬으면 좋겠어.

그래, 이제 알았어. 넌 가만히 있어.

(내가 더 노력할게.)

I hate you for making me explain this

( and he speaks! : ) it’s one of those days. there’s that one crack on the road that is just so damn persistent on tripping you over, a lady that you’ve accidentally bumped into with some serious anger management issues, and a pigeon shit that conveniently falls down, right on your shoulder. just when you think things can’t get any worse, you know? but inwoo can’t really decide which type of a bad-day is less of a mess in terms of normal-type of bad or inwoo-type of bad. ‘cause if you’ve at least read about him, he sees these things that really convinces those around him that he’s mad. mad as in crazy, mad as in a lunatic, and mad as in do-not-approach-this-kid-who-talks-to-nobody!

          so in the morning, he wakes up to his virgin ghost who apparently can’t ascend to heaven (but surprise! he doesn’t even believe in heaven and hell,) because she’s just so full of spite that she’s never been fucked by a dude. and with that, he thinks, what the hell do you want me to do? he ain’t about fucking some she-ghost, and barely manages to brushes her off by striding out of his apartment with a repeated ‘go-away’s’ and a shove at her face. few minutes after, just when he gets his iced americano for the day, he gets a little boo! from a dude who died from construction work. and no, not any kind of construction worker, one that has his head barely hanging onto his neck because a debris from the accident cut off about 3/4 of it. some grotesque shit, i know, and it was enough to have him squish his cup out of a manly shriek, splashing that ice cold drink all over his new shirt. grimy. great.

100+ friends starter sentences / (x)

@clementide

on those rusty 6th street apartment walls across the block, you see the new york city’s own blue named 4am, daybreak. 

the city’s asleep but the gleam in your eyes still brightens our tiny one-room (ours? ours. anything mine is yours.) they look like they’re about to spill a whole past-life story about how you held the sky in your eyes, chest, and then in your pale set of hands before you met me. you wear that amaranthine color on your lips religiously since the day i told you you look breathtaking in it. so you still do, even when i can’t see them under the dim moonlight. then you’re autumn itself with the baltic amber scent of a handmade candle you bought somewhere on 26th street.

-aiden. -hm? -sometimes, i wish i met you somewhere else. -huh. like where– seoul? -maybe, yeah.

then maybe i wouldn’t feel so up in the air every time i’m looking at you like this. i blink at your sudden confession and wonder if it’s okay to interpret them the way i did. then i intuitively, tactfully, turn a blind eye.

this is to say—that i am the most cowardly person in this eventide; yet you still reload the pistol for me to shoot in the dark.

-...sol, are you homesick?

no, aiden—i feel just fine, here with you.