Wanderlust

Roaming aimlessly, you don't know what you're looking for, but you know you're going to find it.

Walking backwards, you can't see where you're going, but you can feel it's the right way.

Trailblazing down concrete streets, you don't have time to stop, but you take in everything as it is.

Skimming across a tightrope, you won't look down, but you know what's waiting if you fall.

Venturing, you aren't very brave, but you don't have to have courage to have a good time.

And when you get home
                    you'll be all alone
                             humming the sound of your own footsteps.

Velveteen

If we know velvet
What is velveteen?


Is it different somehow
    if beautiful and luxurious?
    if soft and comforting?
    if new and shiny?


Is it an imitation
    if it looks just like the real thing?

Is it cheap
    if you can't afford better?

Will a photocopied memory last

    if the ink happens to bleed?

What is velveteen

    if there is no word for velvet?

    if there was never any velvet at all?

I am velveteen.

What am I?

Popping the Question

He opened his lips a sliver, forming a crescent moon in between all the pink. Sucking in a cold breath, he tried his best to stop his heart from pounding out of his chest.

It didn't work.

"You hear me?" She said. Her fingers shifted slightly, clammy around the knife. Her other hand was in his hair, pulling his head back painfully against her collarbone. The blade was inches away from his bare throat. 

Very slowly he leaned back, as far away from the weapon as possible. He could smell her, the distinct musk of nicotine and her jasmine perfume. He didn't want to be close to her, but he valued his own life more.

He still hadn't said a word. His memory was throbbing, too busy to give him something to speak up about.

"Listen to me," her lips said, hot against his ear. "Listen to me carefully. You are going to die. Do you realize that? You are going to die and this knife is going to kill you."

The weapon in question twitched slightly in her long fingers, and he winced as the tip of it prodded the flesh by his jaw. Please don't make me do this.

"Or..." She whispered, slowly and suddenly, sending chills up and down his spine. Her voice turned velvety and smooth, and a strange sense of familiarity began to creep through him. "Or you could think about what I asked. You think about that. And I think you'll reconsider your answer."

His mind was shapes and colours, millions of little doppelgangers, screaming his name, shouting instructions through his system. His heartbeat seemed to quicken, then screech to a halt, only to start the race again, leaving him gasping for breath, his lungs not being able to contain what was needed of them.

"Baby?" Her voice was pleading. Soft fingers ran through his hair. He closed his eyes. He remembered everything.

"I'm going to ask you, one more time, okay?" The knife wavered, as if unsure of itself. The uncertainty in her voice made his heart swell with hope. Maybe everything would be okay. Maybe...

"Will you marry me?"

The knife clattered to the floor. There was no blood on it.

Skittish

A blind figure
   draped in cloth
If you can't see them
   they can't see you

I'm hiding
   behind my own shadow
And wince at the sound
   of my own voice

An avoidance of mirrors
   they always seem to break
My ragged breaths
   would fog up the glass

Dip my feet
   in a puddle of angel tears
And stare up into
   the sunless sky.

***

That was so freaking random.