stare (a collaboration with EC)

I watched the crowd gather outside, as if word had gotten out. I was glad we had the triple locks on our doors although I questioned their placement only briefly before I was distracted by his gaze.

I don’t think he’s ever fully realized the weight of his stare. It grabs me, like hands around my throat till I can’t breathe. But it’s not suffocating, it’s vining whispers in galaxies of crystals and agates. I don’t think he knows everything I write is him. When I type about heros and destinies I’m really typing that the way he chews his bottom lip makes me want to bite it too or the tears I heard him cry last night were the only thing that’s truly ever touched me.

He can’t see it. I know it by the catch in his voice when he says my name or the amber in his recent soliloquy. He can’t see how much I love his fierce. In our bed and in his shoulders, in his spirit. Ive always thought, don’t underestimate him World, this peony has tasted everything you havent. Yet.

But I let him fight it out within, I know he’ll be stronger for it. I just sit here patiently adoring his devotion and every color shift in eye flashes.

The garlic hisses as it hits the olive oil circling the bottom of the pan, immediately the scent fills the room playing off the piano notes playfully tinkling, I picked the music, I always seem to pick the music while she sets the tone
My favorite memories are of her writing, her serious face, while I cook and steal as many glances as possible, when she focuses on her writing I see the same intensity when we sit quietly staring into each others eyes, thundersnow over the ocean

Her tongue is balanced, cutting in anger while healing in love, but as she sits I see it dart across her lips, a flush heats my cheeks as my body quivers in the need to kiss her, maybe she senses my desire as she glances up, only to tell me the oil is burning

At the knock on the door she just looks at me, I can only hang my head and answer it, as we sit eating pizza with the scent of lilacs battling the acrid garlic I find idon’t really care, she is happy, while I get to sit inside the umbra of thundersnow over the ocean

The darkness seemed to allow them to hide in the shadows as if we didn’t know they might try to get in while we slept. The delivery man seemed to think nothing of his clenched fists or the severity of his stare.

And somehow it touches me deeply that he cares if I’m disappointed. And then knowing how to rectify it with my favorite food. I do realize I could tell him where all of my soft places are, where my void actually exists. But there is magic in this process and I am dizzy in our cloudless skies. Each discovery we make is placed permanently between our hearts and becomes a prose of wildflowers on our windowsill.

I was once regretful that he saw the tempest in me, felt my downpour as a hailstorm. Until he told me that he was far from intimidated, he was enamored with the feral sea that was me. Somehow his patience scored a pattern of dark ballads over my bones. All of which seemed to blend so prettily with all of my battle scars.

They stood outside watching in envy, kicking aside the cigarette butts gathering in the parking lot, trying to block out the empty drunken laughter wafting towards the outer edge of the darkness and surrounding the dream-spell, and wondered how to find their own utopia

EC and i have been writing together a lot. i have never been so inspired.

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