those pieces of me/ she keeps filed away
are hers now/ not mine
were they mine to begin
all confessions and show/ of what she truly means to me
roamin here on ea(more)rth
among the simple
floatin in & out/ as she does/ able to disappear
& i miss her
as if she were my own flesh & blood
that part of me/ i leave for her/ behind for when she comes
arrivin in the mornin/ 8:30 on the nose
expectin some note or some treat/ well maybe
all the parts i give to her of me
& sometimes she will thank me/ from the goodness of her goddess heart/ for all those pieces
or for those that we acknowledge
& the others that we dont/ i just go on/ leavin pieces
hopin that she loves me just the same(less)
You step off onto the concrete ledge of the station, glancing down at your watch as you heads towards the closest exit.
(more) "Excuse me, miss?"
It's ten past six, and while there's nothing particularly urgent to attend to you're honestly just done for the day. It feels like a carbs and pajama night.
You feel a tentative hand tap at a shoulder and whirl around with a slightly frantic "Yes! No, sorry?" Seeing no one else he could've been trying to get, you clears your throat. "Do you need me for something?"
"Well, no, not really. I mean, kind of?" His arm recoils reflexively as he stands across from you looking as uncertain (and slightly confused) as you feel. "It's just... you left your wallet on the metro."
"Oh!" It must've fallen out your coat during one of the particularly strong seisms of the car. "Oh gosh, thank you! You didn't go out of your way did you? I mean, I didn't make you miss a thing, did I?"
He brings his arms to a half-crossed thing, balancing his cheek on one hand. "It wasn't a thing I particularly wanted make. I should probably be thanking you, actually."
"Well if it was a dinner thing, would you like to come over? I make a mean quiche, if that strikes your fancy."
"Um!?" He flails a bit, obviously trying to formulate a response to your impromptu invitation. "I don't, I mean, I'm glad you don't think I'm a shady fellow, but would you really be okay inviting a stranger to your house?"
You shrug. "I've got to thank you for the wallet somehow, yeah? You really saved me there."
"If it makes you feel better, I've got a Doberman."
I searched for words. Anything that could describe my existence, so I could have something more than what I am. My body is undergoing atrophy, and I feel as though every second I could be doing more, I could give more, a sea of could haves, should haves, and(more) would haves. Only, in this sempiternal story I always drown.
I see myself in the glass table as I reached to get my bottle. I normally seem to gather my thoughts better when drunk, but today everything seems blurry. I lay my head backwards on the couch and take a swig. It burns all the way down, just the way I like it. What was I doing again? Oh, yeah, finding my meaning. It's strange how my meaning is probably filed away somewhere in the vast universe of my brain, and how maybe in a thousand years we're going to be just that. Filed away in the history of the universe. I smile and lift my bottle to my empty, musty room. Here's to you, you little invisible molecules. You'll bounce around way longer than this piece of meat machine, but infinity seems to be knocking at both our doors, pal. I take a another swig. My brain feels very much alert now, a beautiful trick. I lay my body on the couch and stare at the patterns of the ceiling. Maybe there is some sort of logical scheme to this whole being alive thing. Maybe my brain is just to fucking stupid. Maybe...
I wake up. Square one. If I found any meaning at all it's probably hydrating myself for the next 10 minutes then making love to my hand.
The worst part of early summer was the heat. Edward never did well with the heat - it was still better than the alternative, but temperature extremes of any kind made his joints ache. The automail put undue stress on his body, and it didn't take long for that(more) to catch up with him. At least, in the summer it was socially acceptable for him to lounge around in his boxers with all the windows open.
However, the hotbox that was his office was going to be the death of him and everyone he knew. The morning sun would hit the windows just right, amplifying the heat to the point that a visitor would be soaked in sweat within a minute of walking through the door. He could fry eggs on his desk in July.
(And then there was the ridiculous military uniform with all the layers - whoever thought up that uniform for usage in the summer needed to be stranded in the middle of the desert with a water canteen full of scorpions.)
All that being said, it was somewhat amusing to wake in the mornings and have Rian half-burrowed under him, their skin stuck together by sweat. Rian had to be touching him somehow, every morning they would wake up plastered together; Rian's head tucked against Edward's body, limbs tangled.
Roy had never been quite so tactile, while he loved to hold Edward close and stroke his hair, they rarely woke up touching the other. It was another difference in a long list of items that Edward kept telling himself to stop keeping, to forget about - but it was hard. Rian didn't deserve to be compared to anyone else, he was just Rian. Edward's own psychological hangups did not need to be pushed on anyone else. (less)