inflight, sky, water, sea, you.

by ty

I recall the soft melodic sounds of the flapping of wings, every inch of distance that we added between ourselves, and the one instance when I claimed that we had the world. Backpedalling, I stumbled into the chilly skin of a young teenager thinking that endearment would suffice, and that the pancakes weren’t complete without a little drop of maple syrup, that the batter wasn’t proper without a tinge of mock sweetener; and I daren’t say I’ve left that phase entirely.

I remember saying that you clambered skywards, your head tilted towards the blue hues and for once, there was a glimmer in your once hopelessly dim pupils. There was once when I claimed that you were always carefree, a blotch of pastel amongst the darkest skies, a soft melody in the crevices of an abandoned concert hall, a flickering candle in the darkness; when I was hopelessly lost in my illusions, and you were close to seraphic, superlunary. Companionship akin to a thin blade with little spots of maroon against its shimmering body, we didn’t come close to what we expected things to be like, and thinking back on it feels odd, because it didn’t come off as surprising, not even at that point of time. And after awhile I realized that your presence was akin to a mingling fusion of orange and velvety blue, a unique combination of colours placed way too far from each other on a stained palette. No artist would have thought of placing these two contrasting entities beside each other, yet you stayed riveted on the spot, your hands the subject of attention, or rather, the canvas in itself. It took me awhile, and I envied your strength along with the ability to wrap your emotions with the finest of ribbons.

Years of imprisonment was what I eventually decided that I deserved, because my thoughts were skewed, akin to how I never managed to come up with characters befitting of your ephemeral residence. Attempts were futile because these were merely things, which I picked up from blurry sepia recollections of your shadow cast against the stained walls, or perhaps the flicker of pale skin and neon. These were bits and pieces of my perception of you as a person, but ultimately I did not have a whole, or rather a true understanding of who you were.

But a little guess wouldn’t do much harm, I though. And I’d settle for what I had. Eventually I drew parallel lines against the crumpled pieces of paper and crossed them over with lines in the opposing direction.

For a second you seemed like a person who’d like the sea, someone who’d find solace in the gentle hums of the water droplets desperately following a rhythm, which they couldn’t fathom, just to stay adhered to the masses. Perhaps you’d laugh a little, and find it stupid for a moment. Skin against the grass, legs outstretched, the stinging touch of water a fine contrast to the warmth of your hands; the parallels would surface from the manner in which you hid things without pauses for breathing. The similarity in which water was said to be clear while hiding things way beneath in the best ways; with the comfort of the illusion that the waters were clear and transparent, things were still concealed. Similarly, they all say we’re seventy percent water, fading stop motion clips of the clouds through a week with varying weather the last components making us remotely human.

“Along with the sea breeze we may sway too hard and fall into the depths of cold where our last breath would speak of a conundrum.”

The fault eventually lies in the one who left the cage open, the one who let the doves free. And perhaps it took me a little too long to understand the mere fact; and perhaps the completion of one’s own actions would have been, in many ways, beneficial. Analogous to veins running beneath light skin, the lines resume forming against paper, purplish red against white, ash against wrists; and perhaps the direction doesn’t quite matter, as long as I prevent myself from becoming a monstrosity, as long as I curb myself from inhaling the thin sheet of fog without being certain of the identity of the defined silhouette hiding beneath layers of ataraxia.

As long as there isn’t a case of asphyxiating within harsh fumes out in the wilderness in the simplicity of the concept of home and safety – and the cohabitation of these seemingly polar aspects within the spaces between your fingers which would suffice alone, to reassemble this cacophony of flesh and bones in all the wrong angles and positions.

The same thing baseless allegations of disappointments do best.

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