well-it's-not-actually-mine

Between a Set of Quotation Mark Tattoos

Between them there are nine houses across one sixteenth of a mile
A green mailbox that might belong to our seventh period teacher
And an obviously finite, though intangibly great, stretch of sharp toothed gravel.

Slung taut like bottomless tin cans tied up with fishing line
There’s the rusted yellow spaceship that still blisters my palms
A patch of grass that still smells like a cherry tree
And an apple blossom – miles and miles away – where we walked in our bare feet
before collapsing, or climbing the roof, or scraping our heels in the unending yawn
of sharp toothed gravel.

Between them there are ten thousand and one discarded banana peels
An inconceivable measure of dog barks and the pitter patter of the thunder storms you weren’t afraid to run through with your hair wet and your shoes undone
knocking on my door during the lightning claps while we try to dry you off with a pile of blue towels, and you’re not even shivering.

There are 28 yellow post-it notes scribbled with your dull pencil.
There’s a picture of us grinning at the bus stop, crooked and chaotic, our clothes hanging off our shoulders in haphazard, breakfast-rush yanks, our glasses smudged with each others fingerprints,
our backpacks mostly empty.

And there is an obviously finite, though intangibly piled, mountain of grass blades we tore out of the dirt absentmindedly while they made imprints on the backs of our thighs on sunny mornings or cloudy evenings, and we were talking about the things we didn’t feel big enough to write about, and writing about the things we didn’t feel small enough to talk about.

There are brimming volcanoes of handwritten birthday cards, dogeared paperbacks, a rubber giraffe mask I bought at the zoo the day you turned fourteen and our knees knocked together on the tiny train seat, nineteen notebooks, full and empty, and a song played on a banjo or a ukelele trickling out from the speakers in your mothers car, before we were old enough to drive our own.

There’s the day you fell down and nodded off while we were running and breathing heavy, and we hovered over you and you fogged up at us like the steam over a bowl of my mom’s chilli under your chin, or the countless puddles of condensation from all our melted coffee cups and dandelion colored Popsicle sticks.
And there’s the night I started crying and didn’t stop for an entire year, and you scooped me up like a sturdy serving of Superman ice cream, and we walked circles around everything and didn’t notice the cuts under our toes from all the sharp toothed gravel.

There’s the band we started in my basement, with no instruments or even voices
outside of our echoing laughter.
There’s the night you almost drove us, in your little space shuttle, over the edge of a dead end street in a town we can’t remember the name of, or how we got there, or how to get back.
There’s talking to you while you’re asleep because you dream out loud
and it’s nonsense, but it feels so sensible, somehow, when you’re replying with your eyes shut
and my neck is careening over the side of my bed
my hair hanging down over my face, trying to see if you’re awake
and falling back to sleep before your fire alarm medley of stopwatches wakes up every last grass blade and shard of sharp toothed gravel in the neighborhood.

And I’m sitting in the room you’ve left so much of yourself tossed all over
Across from the desk chair where you wrote at least half of all your stories
and you’re nine houses and one sixteenth of a mile away, but there are only the one point five inches
of pale and freckled wrist-skin between our little black quotation mark tattoos.

And between them, there are somewhere between seven and seventeen contentedly yawning years
of walking circles around everything beneath a truly infinite stretch of banana pudding sunlight,
volumes and volumes, whole libraries, of stories our four ears will be the only ones to ever hear,
and the sickly sweet tang of stolen green apples and fistfuls of unripe cherries still stewing in the pits of our stomachs.

And there’s the night I sat alone in my car in the parking lot of an Italian restaurant,
screaming at your father and you and myself and Jesus Christ from behind the wheel I couldn’t seem to move, and it was starting to rain, but I couldn’t reach the windshield wipers, and my hands and my head and the leaves on all the trees and everything was shaking, and I kept looking at my half of our little black quotation mark tattoos, because there was nothing else in the universe, nothing between my car and our yellow spaceship, nothing nine houses or seven hundred miles away, nothing beneath the sky that still insisted on fading to banana pudding yellow at the end of the storm, that felt okay to look at.

There’s tearing open letters (and there’s nothing more familiar to me now than your dull gray pencil handwriting on yellow paper), and reading them twenty three times even though there’s nothing in them I didn’t inherently, impossibly and instinctively, already know.

And there’s holding your head on my shoulders and promising you, and I’m still, I will always be, promising you, that you’re okay, it’s all okay, I’m okay, we’re okay, it will all, one day, be so much more than just okay.

Lexie, between a pair of little black, possibly infected, suspiciously sanitized needle injected, somewhat misshapen and constantly fading though amazingly permanent quotation mark tattoos, there is everything I ever told you while we sat huddled together beneath a sky that was sometimes sweet and honey hinted, and sometimes swollen with all the storms you weren’t afraid to race through all the way to my doorstep.

There are volumes and volumes, whole libraries, of times you made me warm when everything was cold, and times you made me laugh while I was crying, and a million or so poems about love and all of its quieter definitions, and nights when you filled me back up when I was empty.

There is everything we communicate between glances and eyebrow flexes and first words of sentences we never need to finish, leaving the world hanging, unsatisfied and scrambling, on the feathered ends of everything that fits so soundly and so perfectly between our little black quotation mark tattoos, and absolutely nowhere else.

And we’re sitting nine houses and one sixteenth of a mile from each other
and I’m holding your head to my chest and telling you, though you already know it and don’t need reminded, that you’re okay. I’m okay. We’re okay. It’s all, I promise, I really really promise you, more than just okay.
And there is so much more that could nestle in between us
and our too-loud voices in the hushed night
and the beaches of sharp toothed gravel under the banana pudding sky
and our wrists and our quotation mark tattoos.

But I don’t need to tell you what they are
because you inherently, impossibly and instinctively, already know.

I love you.
You’re okay. I’m okay. We’re okay.
And it will all, someday so soon, I promise, be so much more than just okay.

the-splendiferous-snaily-man replied to your post:the-splendiferous-snaily-man replied to your…

i am fully willing to fuel this habit. well, maybe not the X series side of things, i am not well versed in that. but classic series gay robots? totally.

i’ll be honest with my classic series, everyone is just

hella queer

nobody is safe

i ship all the ships except incest and shit like that

everything is gay and couldn’t be better

youtube

the song Im pretty sure im using but sped up about 1.7x