ORS: Otherwise May be Referred to as A Summer Night, Contemplating the Powerlessness of Youth and the Natural Strength Therein

There's the rush; the feel of air so solid and free rushing through hair. Then the pacifier; the calm and tingling cold that stays the place of air. A total feeling of inebriating freedom as bare legs are whipped by the tall brown grass that has dried up to hibernate through summer. Come the first good rain and the field would be alive and moist with green leaves and brown grass life. Then the feeling of dry dirt and uneven trails under old sneakers. The ground still whispers at the heat of the day, lightly hinting at stale hot and petrifying light. It's the quiet that happens in a full house of sleeping people. The noise of a city turning over in its sleeping and sighing out in wait of the coming day.
Pale eyes look up and up to the stars, swirling and still and stiff as a statue of a famous dancer. There's no motion but the memory of a great dance in the sky. Messy hair drifts out and settles for tip tapping little brushes against shoulders and neck. Still on Earth. Still living. There's the air again but not from running. It isn't the fast rush and desperation of moving just so it feels like the oppression is suddenly leagues behind instead of three blocks to the left and one block down. It's the slow and gentle touch of displaced atmosphere running through hair to remind but not push.
Long, strong palms stretching into bony tapered fingers wrap around a shaft of grass and grip loosely, pulling steadily and carefully until the plant is uprooted and hanging like the death of thousands off the youthful hand. The plant is lifted to young frown lined face and examined under the brilliant and nebulous lunar light.
Indifferent fingers grip tighter for a moment as elbow extends and wrist flicks then palm unfurls and the plant is flung off and out of sight.
Round, childish legs pick dodge carefully through the grass back to the small black and uneven bike path. An old soul sits on the asphalt and leans back on strong arms with elbows flexed back.
Pale eyes don't see the stars nor the moon; they settle on black cuts on air and brown pikes in earth and follow the lines of power out of sight but never out of mind.

"Tepid". I'm awake for some stupid reason.

I just. Fuck. I don't know what the fuck. I have no idea why I'm up right now. SO MUCH SHIT TO DO! Hahahahaha. Anyway. Have this short weird... thing I just wrote.

I don't even know what the fuck this is. It's just like mouth vomit. I don't know. I really don't.

It’s hot and tepid at the same time. It creates as they war together. Bodies rocking, biting, clawing, kissing, feeling, careful, harsh, gently rough.  There’s breathing and life and suffocation and the beginning of death. He doesn’t know if he can take it anymore. If he’s willing to feel split and sewn up. Healed and hurt at the same time. It’s so much warring within himself for something beyond him. Sober and humorless and inherently funny and humiliating and—No, not another day.

It burns, the sweat, as it drops on him from above. Wet, panting breath and spit covered lips and it’s so vulgar and dirty and just a bit of a lot of a lie. The body is soft and yielding and warm and the breeze from the open window makes everything so cold and quivering. In flashes of lunar and car light he sees her. Curves and straights. Bends and narrows. Rising and falling. Falling so hard and unforgiving and here he is still. Unyielding as the day he said hello.

In the morning he lays facing the window, opening his eyes to the golden light cascading over the paradise of concrete and steel. Glorious. He lies there, sheet resting over his shoulder, back and thighs and just exalts in the feeling of beauty and life.  He feels her stirring on the bed and settles in for more of what has always happened.

She rolls over and touches his back, traces patterns or shadows. He stays still because he doesn’t not want her touch but he doesn’t want it either. Her lips are soft and implore on his shoulder. She pushes with small hands and he allows his body to fall on its back. He looks at her slowly and she smiles mischievously. He blinks. She frowns. His face stays impassive. She runs a hand through her hair in irritation. Or rather, tries to run a hand through her hair and encounters too many tangles and loses her hand to her morning jungle.

He doesn't know particularly what to do but he knows what he wants. He wanted to love her. He wanted to be with her. He wanted a normal life. He wanted so much but it's just not there. Just not possible. He hates this. 

"You should leave."

"We were meant to be."

"No."

"Why can't you see what I see?"

"Because it's not there."

"Yes, it is!"

"Maybe you feel something but I don't."

"Why are you so cruel?"

"Would you rather a loveless marriage and a passionless life?"

"With you anything would be bearable." 

"You're still so much of a child."

"And what does that make you?"

"Tired of the lies."

"What lies? I'm not lying to you."

"We're both lying. You that you're happy. Me that I care for you."

"You do..."

"No. Leave. It's better if you do."

"I will never give up on you."

"There was never anything to hold out on in the first place."