My three worst hearts

[thejunipertree]

Another cigarette.
With my hood pulled over my face, I am the blind girl. I can sit here and dream of things that never were. Even if I do sincerely remember.

Psuedo-existence.

I remember dancing through the streets of London, singing accompianment to him and the passerby amusement. The night sky of Piccadilly Circus was like nothing I'd ever seen before, though at the same time, it remained heartbreakingly familar.

I remember London. It exists, if only inside my head. I echo our words, soft and under breath, from that night.
Oh, give me a home...




London, the bitch queen of cities. Carrie may have her New York City, but my home has always been in London. As much as I hate it now, it still reverberates throughout my skin.

I'd like to think that one day, I'll return to it. See the ravens and the watchtowers. I'd like to think that. But, I doubt it will ever come to pass.

I remember his face, cold and pale. It rose above the collar of his King Mob coat like the waxing moon on a November night. I remember his smile, though I haven't seen it since.

Flash backwards, to a younger girl. A younger time. Everything is green and I sit on a swingset, dragging my feet. He sits by me, whispering little songs that only
my ears can decipher. 'You are written on the underside of my skin', I say to him. Jump frog, jump.

I know somehow that he does not remember this night. No memory of how I sighed and continually turned my face away, so he wouldn't be able to read the desire imprinted upon it. He holds my hand, sometimes. I remember his smile, though I haven't seen it in quite some time.

Flash forward a small bit, one or maybe even two years. We stand on a sand dune, quietly alone with a blanket wrapped round our shoulders. Struck dumb by his senseless beauty and the utterly foreign concept that someone of his stature would be enamoured with small, stunted me.

He speaks of rollarcoasters and butterflies. My stomach ties itself in knots, as his kiss unties my mouth. The sky swirls heady all around me and I want nothing more than for him to devour me.

I remember his smile, though only when I look at his photograph. I'll never see that again, however. He is as lost to me as London and my heart.

The three. My trinity of hopebreakers.

I can only take comfort in the fact that they each, in turn, allowed me to warm my hands and face by their fires.

Even if they didn't know it, they kept me warm. However brief it was. I give them up to the passing of time, the ticking of clocks. And turn myself towards the future. Whatever that may bring.

Comments

teary.

[verminefasciste.livejournal.com]

we'll go to London & walk with ghost-lovers, if only for an evening.