#ilsight

I.

                   Samantha had always been akin to a sister, more or less; one who was perpetually fated to reside at the receiving end of his proverbially bad jokes; a girl who eluded any and all romantic affections and propinquities, and perhaps that was for the best. When she laments in tenth year that she hasn’t yet kissed a boy, the gesture comes without thought, without hesitation: index finger rests beneath her chin, thumb delicately atop it as he brings her lips to his own. It’s transient, and he returns to his sandwich thereafter, praying aloud ( all in jest, of course ) that she doesn’t give him cooties.

II.

                   The next is by divine ordinance. Or perhaps that’s just a fanciful epithet for spin the bottle; either way, he feels relief envelop him when he’s been ushered to kiss her rather than Ashley ( rule number ONE of the bro-code: don’t mack on your best pal’s crush ), or worse, Michael ( for whom the series of precluding ‘no homo’s would be incessant ). Hands rest on either side of her face; a comfortable familiarity permeates the air, and he isn’t certain if he’s just grown used to the way that Sam smells, or if he actively enjoys it. Nonetheless, he hopes that she can forgive the taste of brandy on his breath, how his fingers move to thread through her hair, and how he opts to hold her closer than before. It’s an unconscious action: fluid, natural; almost as organic as the way in which he rescinds every chance to bring the moment to its severance, or the way in which his head dips forward when she pulls hers back, granting hence an opening to plant another kiss in some manner of wordless farewell. He retreats with a smug laugh and the adamantine conviction that it was all in good fun, nothing more.

III.

                  ‘Josh Washington’ has always been a name synonymous with trouble; whether he was the progenitor, or merely an abettor in the cause, the monicker would undoubtedly be found emblazoned on some part of the billing: such was a sempiternal truth of the mortal world, a constant midst the myriad variables. He tells himself it’s just for kicks, that there’s nought in his heart beyond the platonic cusp: how could there be? Sam was like another sibling; noticing the minutiae of her giggles, or the details of her smile was more an attest to his observance than it was anything else ( right? ) Though eyes enraptured in their longing looks shuck such impassioned tincture as they fall closed. He catches her mouth with his forthwith: it’s effortless and tentative all at once, and he hopes to play it off as certainty with which he moves; arms remain crossed, elbows resting on the table he’s leaned himself over: frivolity exudes from his gait, even as he retracts, and she’s greeted with a giddy smirk as an addendum. An adage that behooves repeating: it’s just a prank, no strings attached; no reason for it beyond a desire to get her worked up. ( Don’t be stupid, Washington ). That’s what he tells himself, at least; it’s what he’ll keep telling himself.

IV.

                  Widow is the word for one who has lost their spouse; orphan is the appellation of a child without parents. He could parse the dictionary a hundred thousand times over and still come up empty handed; there was nothing, no refinery no inkling of a morpheme which could surmise the barren ache within his chest. What do you call a brother wrought by loss? What do you call a man torn asunder by bereavement? The world lives on and yet he sees no colour; heart beats on and yet he cannot sense it doing so. Flesh is maculated by despondency; each gesture breeds some form of anxiety; his movements are bred of dolour. He wonders with brevity if his skin feels like sorrow, if his kisses are steeped in the same misery he is wont to proclaim. Desperation clings to it: this cadaverous yearning to invoke a connection with someone, something. If his head is a thunderstorm, a tornado, she is the eye of it all; tears have stained brown vellum, he wears furrowed brows and a pained mien, even as no soliloquies escape him. There is nothing beautiful about tragedy: it’s cold and yet it burns; it’s emptiness and yet it feels like a screaming everything. Every hymn, every gentle plea is bequeathed as a cacophonous void, a staunch desolation, caught upon her lip as he sighs into her. It is a voiceless behest: just for a moment, a moment, let me having something good again, but all that he sires feels like teeth.

V.

                  It’s when he’s confined to the likes of alabaster dissonance wherein he feels like death has become him. Tiled walls flecked with chrome, floors bedecked in pristine ivory: its perfection vexes him almost as much as the lonesome quarantine does. He’s aware that he is nought but dwindling invocation; de-fanged and de-clawed: what is a monster when it’s been deconstructed so? Sam was varnished in scars, and he wonders if he’s been the one holding the knife this entire time.                  

          ‘   why don’t i go grab some ice cream  &  we can spend the night exchanging relationship horror stories ?   ‘ 

          he’s bent over, hands on his head. and  TIRED. she can see the weariness dripping off of him like tar, pooling on the floor, encasing his feet – his legs – his torso – his head. at his words she starts. only a little – after all nothing comes as a surprise anymore to her, not r e a l l y.  not after everything. SCREW BOUNDARIES, warm hands grip broad shoulders, spinning him to face her. and then they’re on his face, thumbs working circles into his cheekbones slowly, fingertips touching their twins found on long tan limbs. sam quickly, quietly, swipes a tear out of his left eye with the nail of her thumb as it threatens to leak down his cheek. she catches it. she holds it. she  doesn’t let it go.

           ❛   it’s hard.  ❜   breathing is labored and shaking.   ❛   oh god, it’s so hard, josh, but  p l e a s e .  please don’t give up, okay ?  ❜   sam wasn’t going to let go of any more washingtons. not now, not  e v e r .   ❛   we can do this. both of us.  together.  just  talk  to me, josh.  ❜   it wasn’t enough, but she didn’t know what else she could do. sam was tired too. the weariness was trying & tore at her painfully, but it would not stop her from being there for him when he needed her.

                                                                         —                     she would  always be there.

           And what shall a man do when a part of him has died? Factions and facets had already been conscripted, taken the measure of unmade graves in stride; he feels little else, hollow echoes of a past he cannot change. He was loathe to be beheld in such a vulnerable, worthless light: COILED in frailty; feeble and wont to passions heretofore cloistered and bounded in the most sacrosanct of nutshells. Warmth of fingers glissading over span of tense form invokes nought but tentativeness; it’s a gesture fraught with fragile certitude, a stiffness ascribed to his actions therewith. Palms press to slender wrists, fingers snake ‘round forthwith: there’s security in grasping like this, clinging to her as though she were some adamantine anchor beset by stalwart stone.

Eyes squeeze shut, heavy brows furrow: there’s pain painted over flesh worn ragged by fatigue and dolour; tremulous sigh is exhumed through narrowly parted lips, precluding any eloquence likely to surmount ( as if he were capable of it in the first place ). He fumbles for words; every step results in falter and folly, incredulity lines the horizon. Gait is marred by pitch and blighted haze; clouds of shame, remorse, aching damnation, shroud the skyline: there is only abyssal nothingness beyond its bourne ( he knows this; that self-same vacancy is lodged within his heart, too ). Hands fall to his sides gingerly; it’s only now that he can bring himself to look at her, silently condemning himself for weakness that threatens to exude through fissured guise. 

❝ I dunno what to say, Sam. ❞ And fuck he can hear the sob welling in his throat. ❝ How am I supposed t           ❞ ( How do you keep living when you’ve lost everything? ) Tongue runs over lower lip; he shakes his head, tries to blink tears away with no avail. ❝ What do I do? ❞