(no subject)
Heartache is a waltz for two.
“Morning,” Jaejoong chirps from across the couch.
“I… must have been real drunk last night, huh.”
“Mm,” and he continues sipping from his mug, legs criss-crossed applesauced.
What did I think of that?
What did I think of him, of myself?
What was I doing here at all?
“I hope you know what I’m thinking of,” I said.
“That you’re glad you only turn eighteen once?” He offered me a mug.
“That I’ll turn eighteen over and over again.”
Jaejoong’s face breaks a little. I take the mug away and hold his hands instead. When he comes back, he says, “I’ll turn eighteen with you then.”
I laugh. “That’s a stupid thing to do.”
“I’m allowed to be stupid, you’re not.”
“No you're not.”
“I have seniority!”
“Seniority or senility?”
“Seniority to take care of their dongsaengs, to make them soup the morning after,” Jaejoong laughs. “Don’t you know?”
“Wouldn’t mind if you always came.”
“Not that old.”
“Yeah,” I say, and punch him in the arm.
If place existed not in our external surroundings but in where our souls rested, then we were certainly on the same plane: infinitely, accordingly, to our hearts beating time signatures in cathartic atrophy.
I am where you are
“Morning,” Jaejoong chirps from across the couch.
“I… must have been real drunk last night, huh.”
“Mm,” and he continues sipping from his mug, legs criss-crossed applesauced.
What did I think of that?
What did I think of him, of myself?
What was I doing here at all?
“I hope you know what I’m thinking of,” I said.
“That you’re glad you only turn eighteen once?” He offered me a mug.
“That I’ll turn eighteen over and over again.”
Jaejoong’s face breaks a little. I take the mug away and hold his hands instead. When he comes back, he says, “I’ll turn eighteen with you then.”
I laugh. “That’s a stupid thing to do.”
“I’m allowed to be stupid, you’re not.”
“No you're not.”
“I have seniority!”
“Seniority or senility?”
“Seniority to take care of their dongsaengs, to make them soup the morning after,” Jaejoong laughs. “Don’t you know?”
“Wouldn’t mind if you always came.”
“Not that old.”
“Yeah,” I say, and punch him in the arm.
If place existed not in our external surroundings but in where our souls rested, then we were certainly on the same plane: infinitely, accordingly, to our hearts beating time signatures in cathartic atrophy.
I am where you are