mylaureltree

[mylaureltree]

empty canvases.

stop waiting - cigarettes after sex

“you’re an absolute nuisance.”

“am i?”

“oh, don’t even start,” i seethe, giving it my all to not give in to the temptation of perhaps raising my voice even a bit more, maybe turn around so they can get a good look of what a patient individual i truly am, perhaps a small nudge with the file that is sitting quite unsteady in my now shaky hands.

just a nudge, really. an ‘accident’, if you will.

“oh, please start, i’ve been waiting so long, after all,” their voice carries a hint of that self-pleasure after they have finally managed to push all buttons that linger in me.

i doubt that there will be any left as long as the physical embodiment of my loathing keeps poking on all (yet) available nerves that they find.

honestly, they always find new ways to unwillingly grab my attention and squeeze it so tightly in their palm, it is infuriating.

and almost impressive.

“if you continue to touch any of my materials, i will personally shove them all down your throat. it would be my pleasure.”

laughter is not really what i want.

especially not if it is theirs.

but god, why do i jump everytime that melody rings so soothingly in my ears?

why is it all i want to hear?

that final bark of laughter sounding from them finally makes me face that elated expression with a contrasting one, furrowed brows and pursed mouth, only to quickly steal the small chisel from their hands.

“you have no respect for an artist’s utensils.”

“neither do i respect your work, what does that make me?”

tension grows inside of me, but i manage to breathe out as a way of calming myself, even through completely sealed lips.

“an inconsiderate, untalented fool,” i bite back.

and that gloriously smug grin only widens.

“well, as long as i am your fool, i dont see any issue.”

curse it all.

heart, body, feeling.

all of it.

drifting my head back to my desk, the almost dried-out clump of red clay (that doesn't seem to be taking on the shape i want it to be in) stares right back at me so unknowingly, only making my blood boil to its final peak.

they’re only here to mock me.

because they know that i have no inspiration.

that my mind is full of other thoughts.

tapping my nails on the scratched up wood, my eyes close instinctively to  try another attempt at organizing the mess that is continuing to brew inside my head.

it is the seventh time today, so it has to work this time.

it just has to.

or else i will find myself nearly pulling out my hair again.

a laughter resonating the same rhythm as that of a singing sparrow, 

dancing under the sun while fluttering its wings oh so gracefully,

above fields of camellias touched by the hues of rosy skies when the sun sets,

and God, you remind me of the sun.

that nurturing warmth that envelopes me fully and yet stings my skin at the same time.

do you even understand how i yearn for you to feel that same warmth?

for you to overthink every detail of my face like i do with you?

to savor those accidental touches we both share and feel your own fingertips grow numb the moment we do?

just what do you think about?

do you ever think about me?

“didn’t know that you do calligraphy.”

pulled out of my thoughts in mere seconds (embarrassing…), i swerve my head back to them.

“... i’m surprised that you even know what it is,” i retort, eyeing their fingers intensely and how they spin the bamboo stick within them, small splats of dried ink decorating the light green stem.

“yeah, yeah, get off my back and show me.”

“show what?

“your amazing kitchen skills. you know what i mean!”

…

God.

i only stare at their anticipating face, hesitating at first.

then it all just melts to a blur, now idealizing a final strategy of trying to clear my mind.

rising from my chair after a few moments pass, the lingering touch of their hand grazing mine burns like fire before i swiftly take the bamboo pen with a light tremor.

dipping the pointed end in ink, my gaze never leaves theirs.

eyes crinkled. confusion? nervousness? protest?

even their smile has faded.

let this work, please.

and as if my hand were now working by its own, enchanted by a spell i seemingly casted myself, i paint their skin like my own personal canvas.

what i see is you.

all over my thoughts, i only see you.

spreading out my sanity with your words and calling it your own, 

words that hold so many meanings to me whilst they mean the simplest to you.

but when i paint on this empty canvas,

you may understand what they all mean to me.

what you mean to me.