Page 14 of My Lovely Tragedy
How words, sometimes so simple, but mostly so fucking complicated, never reallymeananything. Or if they do, there is far too much to unpack. Hidden meanings and alternative messages. Perception and voice.
I’ve written dozens of songs over the years, most transformed into songs that we’ve played on stages far bigger than I ever could’ve dreamed. And I’veseenthe effect my words have had on people. Tears in their eyes, mouths opened wide as they screamed my own pain back at me.
But maybe that’s just it. Maybe it was too much. Trying to find these words to describe something that’s truly nameless.Feeling and existence and pain.
Music, simple and uncomplicated, means what it means.
Or maybe I’m just hungover, having an existential crisis.
Neither of us speaks as time moves on, never slowing for anyone. But the movement is a gentle sway, comfortable and relaxing as Tobias easily morphs into another piece. Darker and more obscure. Even a little heavy.
It’s chilling as it pulsates through the room. An echoing haunt.
And I guess this is what we will do until the roads are clear and cell phones start working again because what else is there?
We’re just two strangers in each other’s company. And it’s odd, if not a bit uncomfortable, but it is what it is, and I don’t have it in me to fight anymore. To fightanything.
Just tumble where the pieces fell after another one of my drunken mistakes.
I’m here now, and I’m too tired. Might as well live a little.For once.
I don’t have anything left to lose. And if he ends up being some psycho killer… Well.
Memento Mori,as they say.
CHAPTERFIVE
TOBIAS
Time is slow,nearly still in its small, gentle waves of the keys beneath my fingers and the notes reverberating into me.
It’s been far too long since I’ve played, but it’s as easy as breathing. A sensation I felt myself starting to forget.
The migraine pulsating at my temples recedes as I watch Brooklyn feel the notes in the air, his face and posture relaxed, golden hair splayed wide across the sofa at his back. The sun, bright and sharp, clings to the curtains, peeking in the gap and flashing across his knees pulled close to his chest—a protective stance if I’ve ever seen one.
My eyes haven’t glanced at the keys once since Brooklyn closed his.
He’s right—how strange this all is. But I was not lying when I said I find him interesting… andinterestis intriguing.
It makes you desire to know, to exist within and revel.
I know I am far more comfortable than he is, but his inability to do anything about it certainly helps the situation—for now. And I’m unsure what will occur once the circumstances change, but for the time being, I want to enjoy the intense comfort of his company. His sharp questions and lingering gazes of piqued interest.
The brush of the keys beneath my fingers transforms to words in my mind, not loud or screaming, but insistent and heavy with importance.
I stop the stroke of my fingers mid-note, causing Brooklyn to twitch at the abrupt end. His forehead creases as a brow arcs, stretching his eyelid taut where it remains closed. Shoving my glasses back up my nose, I slide off the bench, tugging at the hem of my sweater as it twists with my movement.
As I part my lips to speak, he beats me to it. “Why’d you stop?” A simple question, spoken monotonously, but that miniscule shift in his left brow gives his own interest away.
I take time to savor his words on my tongue, bitter with curiosity mixed with a breathy sweetness of exhaustion.
“Are you hungry?” He cracks his eyes open, azure eyes pinned to mine. I suck in a breath at the connection, skin prickling with awareness. My molars connect at the urge to glance away from the intensity, but I’m captivated.
Brooklyn remains still, steady and unperturbed as we look at one another.
And that is all we are doing. Simplylooking.
No words are spoken, only the unrestrained cadence of mediocre poetry like a soft breeze in my mind and my heart a potent throb at the base of my throat.
