My cocoon is spun of surreal striped sheets, maggi and a phone that’s meant to ring. But my dreams are a frenzied rush of morbid colour and if I wake up smiling, I don’t remember it.
I’m talking again. The words spilling into each other till they spin me round and round and you watch me like you should – enthralled, blazed, fingers twirling rolling paper.
I’m not that fascinating and you’re not that quiet but we’re fated to swap moods and spit, warmth and the reasons I still make you smile. It’s raining and I want the windows open. Your hair smells of smoke and Betty Boop and Che paint faces on your wall. They’re jealous. Who wouldn’t be?
If I could trace cheat codes to find you, I would. We both have shiny happy fits of rage, I’d upset your game if it bored me, you - you’d curl up in your corner, fight words beating though your veins and I’d know you’re my plus one.
I’m not that breathtaking and you’re not that safe but we’ve mastered the art of sulking and if my scars are your gift I’m keeping them.
We’re in my room and I’m glowing and Carry Out is playing in the background. I’m on my toes and you’re holding me up and we’re suffering from mutual addiction.
“Pretend you’re out clubbing with your friends okay, and I’m a random boy”
“Do I get to be drunk?”
“Definitely”
We play hide ‘n’ seek with gravity and your hands dance their way down my spine, your face inches from mine. Look but don’t touch. Touch but don’t taste.
My mouth is yours and our cheat codes make me laugh.
Bas.
I miss you.
