Sweet summer boy, nectar mouth parted, the staff that broke the sea. He seems to me so hollow; a lithely whittled mausoleum one matchstick away from chaos, the kind that floods junctions into crisp, unruly frenzies.
We are always unoccupied. I smash the only clock I possess, and he watches me with amusement. Later, I mourn the loss a wee bit, gathering broken plastic bits into the valley of my palms and gazing forlornly at the brass hour hand. It seems so diabolical to have gifted someone a clock on their sixteenth birthday, but he'd said it was to ruin me. No mincing the words, nothing to spread the abrasiveness thinly.
There are worse things to get ruined by — primarily him, but this is only a ghostly whisper — and so, in the spirit of rebellion, the poor clock gets the guillotine.
Funnily enough, there is never anything to do, and yet this sense of freedom seems oddly tethered. He minds the slow poison of anxiousness, the notion that something needs doing, but what, and how, evades him. For the larger part, I tell him to enjoy this.
"This is the only chance you and I will ever get to be this peaceful," I say soothingly.
He is serene again. Still hollow, still lithely whittled, still a matchstick away. I let him be, back flat on the grass, and sing myself another crude tune. The summer melts itself dry, and now, we submerge ourselves into the stark blue of December.
And still, the nothingness drones. Unbearably so, he rots at the seams, nectar studded with stuck dead flies, and I convince myself for hours to not deeply drink into the madness.
It is neither slick nor apparent, but I still see the end miles away before it actually arrives. I think it to be callous of me, but I open the door to let it in. I brew it a frothing cup of odious coffee. Secretly, I am relieved. The serene boy would break no bones to come back here, and it seemed almost a pity.
But leaving is a matter entirely divorced from threatening to. The end picks up its hat and loops an arm around his, and I stand by the doorframe, watching the retreating backs of two fragments of sorrows. Window boldly shut, table dusted, teacup clutched between five fingers and slammed into the wall, coffee dregs slowly mapping the shoddy paint job tearfully.
Then, silence. No more hollow mausoleum crying himself to sleep. No more chagrin at my perpetual tranquility. He must have resented the lifelessness of us, the pale ennui of liberty at our own terms.
No matter. obscene and brazen, I will stay here like a clasped earthworm, resigning itself to be mangled under a boot. This is no trouble. None at all.
a little context. i considered the idea of people living in a "haven". how much longer until it wears them down? who stays? could you?