The sound of Hall and Oates filled my room. The notes and the beat and the harmonies were tangible - if I reached up with a finger or two I could feel them dancing over the concentric ridges on my fingertips. They tapped their toes and wiggled their heads and I could feel their lips smiling against me.
I was wearing glittering bobby pins in my hair, a smile on my face, and my heart on my sleeve. The tip of my tongue danced over the roof of my mouth, emitting tiny clicks and clacks and tsk's with the beat. I was, in all honesty, happy.
I turned in absentminded circles in time with the drums as I sniffed a little. It was April, the beginning of the end for anyone with allergies, and my nose was itchy. You had yourself perched on my desk, dark limbs tangled and even darker eyes trained on me. I wouldn't fall, but then you never believed me when I said that. Every time I stumbled over my happiness your entire being would tauten and your jaw would lock. You were steadfast in your vigilance.
I still daydream about you relaxing. You were a spring coiled too tight and it never suited you the way that it suits me. I could trace the outlines of your muscles jumping beneath your skin whenever you'd get agitated.
My desk is white. Bleak. It feels cold to the touch and when I run my fingertips over it, nails bitten and torn into tiny nothings and small cuts from my teeth painting pictures on my skin, each of my vertebrae seems to give its own small shudder.
You manhandled my fan into the windowsill for me once upon a time and it's still doing double duty- it's blowing the slow, soft piano chords around the room in wide circles so that they tangle into my hair and they settle on my clothes. It's also ushering the petrichor into the house. Crystal clear rain droplets are returning, in their gaseous state, to their homes far away from the grass outside of my window but I'm selfish enough to trap a few in my bedroom. A bit of aromatherapy, if you will. I trace the big toe of my right foot in circle after circle after tiny circle along the frigid hardwood floor and I pretend that each time I'm drawing a piece of you into - and then bringing it out of - the light wood.
I'm terribly lonely and I've forgotten what that feels like; but then, I'm not particularly inclined to feel lonely. Isolation is my muse, so isn't it impossible for me to feel lonely when the words come waltzing into my head and the ideas come in numbers so great that they start me itching? They keep me company.
I'm terribly lonely for you, I suppose I should say.
