Bridgycat
You make me, make me, make me, make me hungry for you

Darkness is overrated.
You like to think that you're one of the few people who actually get that. It's just a shade of light, it's not representing everything evil in the world, it's not a salvation, it's not a solution and it's not a sign that you're a lonely bastard and should die, alright?
Feels nice to crawl into it some times, though, like you're doing now.
You sort of wish on a level or two that you could state that his scent still lingers in your bedsheets like in this novel you had to read in the eighth grade about some woman who lost her lover because he went off to war and she cried in his shirt and started drinking because she was so desperately lonely and after that you didn't read more because the semester was over and by the time you got back after summer everybody had forgotten it even existed, so you never got to finish the book. You think she died, though. It seemed like the reasonable thing to do.
Rolling over from back to side you just lay there and look at the empty space next to you. That whole scent-thing's bullshit; of course you can't still smell him, he was only here for a couple of nights, for fuck's sake, you were always at his place, of course there's no smell here. It annoys you that you even started to think about the possibility, proof enough for you to claim you're dumb, and you shift positions again and find yourself with your face buried where the pillow edges and there's a small gap in between its soft lines and the mattress underneath.
Inhaling with your nostrils all you smell is this warmth, this really old warmth that almost stings a little in your second breath.
You want to be able to smell him.
You take a deeper breath as you press your head further in there, further into the shiny white pillow and further into what might be left of him, what you want to might be left of him. Still only warmth, maybe a little bit of nicotine and human filth, but nothing of his, nothing smells like him and you force yourself to search deeper even though you know there's nothing there to find. The fabric has turned harsh against your face as you exhale through it and inhale its own little tiny particles and fuzz. Something starts to stir inside your brain, might be somewhere else, your arm, your ear, your chest, it doesn't matter, because now you're on a level of suffocation and the air around you is shutting down its existence quicker and quicker with every millimeter you keep on pushing your nose into the shabby fibres in something that's not even hope or desire anymore but just this throbbing something that needs you to keep on going.
You can't breathe anymore and you wouldn't care if this is what kills you. Lungs beginning to choke up your body tries desperately to make you listen to it, but for a reason you cannot point out all that spins inside your own head is the image of you at fifteen with a rope tightening around your throat for a reason you can't even remember anymore. It's getting hazy now and this is about the time you realize you're not gonna win this no matter how badly you want it or how hard you try but as always you don't want to know, so you don't make any volountary moves besides clutching your muscles so hard into the pose you're in the middle of that your whole body begin to shudder and it literally feels like your ribs are withering one by one from within. The next few seconds go by in a streaky blur - there's a cramp, your face so determined against white, white fabrics, your mind releasing and your body collapsing and you don't know if you ever blacked out or not but when you re-open your eyes you're coughing like a child whose head's just been pressed down under water and some sort of spasm has hold of you until finally it throws you over on your side and you take one breath before you realize you're still alive. For the following moments you don't know what to feel. Your chest heaves and you're flat on your back as your head feels heavy and light in the same time, and it takes a little while until you actually think about ever getting up again.
You walk down the sixteen steps to your kitchen and prepare yourself a cup of tea. It's not until you've taken a sip you realize you don't even like tea.
You lie crawled up in your darkness and the fact that you're alone hasn't been this evident in you don't even know how long anymore.
Enjoy the silence, you little bitch.

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