I'll Be Your Eyes...

Smile on, darling.

Liquid joy streaks her face as she stares at the source of the ascending and descending peaks on the LCD. She silently thanks whoever-may-hear for the incessant 'beep' of life that echoes off the dull, monochrome walls.

 

She rushes to the figure's side in prestissimo, thrumming with electricity and adrenaline and quick pulses.

 

"You're awake." Her tears poor onto the boy beneath her, staining darker shades onto the snow-coloured robe.

 

Choked sobs of sweet relief hang in the air like threads on a clothes-line, wind blowing them up into the air gently as it dries-- slowly but surely-- for it to soon be worn again. Arms wrap possessively around the bed-ridden male, pulling their bodies close. (If one looked closely, they'd be able to see her eccentricity glowing neon through her bones-- see the blood pump through the geography of her veins.)

 

She finally looked up to see him smile, eye's half-lidded (not really looking), and she felt her lips curve upwards. (Because your smiles are addictive, like those liquid dares in a glass you swallow to 'relieve your pain and freeze yourself'.)

 

After a few more electric moments, the silence was broken. (Along with me.)

 

"Why are the lights out?"

 

With those words, everything (everything) went crashing like a shooting star-- bright and neon, fading into the night as it gets darker, darker, darker before it completely burns out (but it won't). (Because after all, obsession sears with a terrifying crimson, doesn't it, dear?)

 

"… The doctor thought it'd be easier on your eyes… for when you'd wake up." (Just for now, (s)he believed.)

 

She hated herself for not doubting his words as soon as he had spoken them-- if she had opened her eyes and learned to (not) trust him(self), maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't have happened to him. Maybe, just maybe, dreams would still have been made of stardust, not black holes and chaos.

 

(But they never really were, were they? For sweetheart, hope is only a drug for hypocritical cynics. Though we all fall too hard for stenciled deception.

 

You're a contraband and I'm just a hoper with an Icarus-complex.)

 

Tears of joy turn sour, pouring, now-lost hopes are being choked back and muffled by the hand over her mouth. The melancholic melody trickled past her lips, between fingers, and into attentive ears.

 

"What's wrong?" He asks, voice as calm as water, knocking against her senses in ripples.

 

"Nothing."

 

(Sometimes I wish you'd burn for me.)

Author's Note

I was feeling rather poetic today, so this rather poetic story spawned.

If you don't understand something (because I understand this is drowning in similes and metaphors), just try and dig a little deeper, you'll get there.