Gotta Have Our Things by hajike-no-tori, literature
Literature
Gotta Have Our Things
Only
Needing to be alone
Sucks me into this "forever".
Unable
To assimilate and merge
Amongst those who don't know my name.
I just realized
I'm never depressed in the city.
Never
Distracted by the grand things that I'll never be.
I'm
DNA,
I'm vibrant color,
I'm leather and a good manicure.
In the cold,
Ice separates this pond
From the real world up above.
In the mud, no life can be seen,
And we are left to drown below.
No one else notices
I'm never depressed in the city.
I'll look you in the eye, and
Foul as I am,
I'll spit you out again.
You'll never remember me in the crowd.
Oh, sinking suburb.
It was here that I b
Austria was many things, but alert was not one of them. So when one of her servants slowly crept up behind her, she was not aware of this, his footprints drowned out as they were by the complex melodies conjured by her fingertips. She poured every ounce of her attention into telling a story, one she alone understood, and being as she was less inclined towards words and body language than most, the piano was the only true means of release she knew.
So when his arms wrapped around her, she did her best to rectify the flat note she'd inadvertently played as a natural, maintaining the slow rhythm of her breath through sheer force of will even as
"I need your bones,"
He told me
Honestly.
Not giving it a second thought,
I extended my arm,
Prepared for the numbing needle.
"I'll put them right back together when I'm done.
You have no idea how much you're helping me,"
He insisted,
Picking apart tendon and ligament with a lover's hands.
I did not doubt him.
Not a capillary was ruptured,
Nary a muscle torn.
I watched, enthralled,
As my cartilage was placed neatly in labeled cups.
All he needed was my left arm and hand.
The rest, I could use as I needed.
So gentle he was to my bones,
Every one a blank white jewel,
Each arranged flawlessly in a shape like they'd once taken.
It was a practically perfect day.
In this place, the blooms of the mozzarella bushes shone white in the sunshine alongside a glittering river of red wine. Hundred-year-old willows provided cool shade beneath their bowers of linguine and spaghetti, beneath which kittens gathered to dine on bolognese. The martorana trees had even begun to drop fruit.
It is here we find our hero, on his tippy-toes, straining to touch a perfect-looking marzipan peach just a few cm beyond his reach. As in many of his dreams, Italy Veneziano was stark naked.
"Just a...just a...ve--"
A merciful gust of wind sent the tree's branches in motion, and the peach bobbe