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Description
Books and poetry were his world and night after night he’d agonize as he’d try to get it all down on that paper. Paper that held his heart, full of metaphors and soliloquies, compound sentences and comma splices. His pen couldn’t scratch across the paper fast enough, nor could his fingers traverse across the keyboard quicker than the electrodes carrying his thoughts from brain cell to brain cell.

Arial font or a sloppy mix of cursive and pen smears where all he knew anymore. He knew them better than the curves of her back, better than her pouting lips that were asking him to come over and pay attention to her. Night after night she would look up from the bed to find him sitting up, still naked and illuminated by the bright glow of his computer screen, frantically trying to record everything that was inside of his mind. Other nights she’d walk out of their room to get a drink of water or use the bathroom, only to find him sitting on the tile floor of the kitchen, bent over a notebook. His hands smeared with black ball point pen ink, and a cup of cold coffee next to him, proof that she’d beaten him to sleep yet again.

Dark bags decorated his eyes, pure blue eyes that she loved, that she never got to look into anymore. She remembered when she used to be what he’d look at, study, and tell his ideas to. She used to brush his black hair out of those blue eyes, ice blue eyes that were always gazing into the screen of a laptop these days. They would sit in the outside café in the morning, the one that’s across the street from his flat, eating blueberry filled doughnuts for breakfast. They sat in their favorite spot; under the willow tree and by the fountain, she liked to sit there best because the sun didn’t shine in her eyes and she liked the slight spray of water that the breeze carried with it.

He would scribble on napkins while she would try to speak to him of important things, like her day at the office or how the apartment needed to be cleaned. He would just nod his head at her, hair flapping down against his forehead. She would stare at him, tears filling her eyes, eyes pleading with him to acknowledge her. He would only write faster, poetic device after fragmented sentence danced across the napkin, around the café’s logo, then bleeding onto the table cloth. He’d look up at her, his eyes out of focus, sleep begging to consume his body. Her heart skipped a beat, hoping that he’d come back to her, only to be disappointed when he’d look back down and continue ignoring her.

“Lets go back,” she said, pushing away her chair, holding out her hand to him.

He blinked, looking up, the fog clearing, and nodded. Pen dead, and breakfast left untouched, he left his words behind.

This was how it always was.

And it was getting worse.

She would sit in the bathroom, pants around her ankles, crying into wads of toilet paper as he waited in the hallway for her to be done.

“I need to get ready for work,” he’d say, and she knew that he was completely fine sitting outside the door on the floor, notebook propped up against his knees. He didn’t particularly want to go to work, he was perfectly fine sitting at home doing what he was being paid to do. Going to work involved putting on a tie and being called Mr. At home he could write in his boxers and no one would speak to him. No one would bother him.

She knew this, and that’s why she would leave before him. She would slip out of the apartment and take the train to her desk job before he would even look up from whatever he was writing long enough to even notice she was gone. She felt it was more her job to leave undetected, without a goodbye kiss, without asking when she was going to be home; it was her job to become a ghost and fade out before he noticed.

“I have a presentation today,” he said into the oak wood that was locking her into the blue and white tiled bathroom. She could hear the sound of him standing up, his knees popping as tendons that shifted, his notebook flopping onto the floor. “What are you still doing here anyways? You’re usually gone by now.” he knocked on the door. “Are you okay in there?”

She sniffed, shoving another piece of toilet paper up her nose, dabbing another piece over her eyes, glad she hadn’t applied mascara and eye shadow yet. Standing up she pulled her pants up, zipping her fly, then flushing the porcelain toilet. Going to the sink she pressed her palms down next to the sink, looking at her bloated face in the mirror.

How long can I take this.

She pressed her forehead into her own reflection, the subtle thunk shaking the contains of the cabinet hidden on shelves behind the glass. Years worth of doctor visits, refills at the pharmacy, their entire medical history forgotten and untended to, there for everyone to see. She thought that maybe she was saving the different pain killers for a reason, for maybe when she got up the courage, so maybe someday she could die beautifully and give him something to really write about. So she could brand herself into his mind, and force him to think about her every day.

“Hey let me in,” she could hear the concern in his voice, but she couldn’t tell if it was for her, or for his presentation that he was going to be late to. She could never tell the different, not anymore.

He slapped his hand against the door and she turned, toilet paper falling out of her nose and landing in the sink, blood and snot encrusted on it. Bloodshot eyes wanted to eat through the door. She wanted to fall into his open arms and have him write on her body with his fingers as if she were one of his pieces of paper. She wanted to be decorated with his love like a book, but she didn’t feel that from him anymore. Or so she had herself convinced she didn’t.

Description
Books and poetry were his world and night after night he’d agonize as he’d try to get it all down on that paper. Paper that held his heart, full of metaphors and soliloquies, compound sentences and comma splices. His pen couldn’t scratch across the paper fast enough, nor could his fingers traverse across the keyboard quicker than the electrodes carrying his thoughts from brain cell to brain cell.

Arial font or a sloppy mix of cursive and pen smears where all he knew anymore. He knew them better than the curves of her back, better than her pouting lips that were asking him to come over and pay attention to her. Night after night she would look up from the bed to find him sitting up, still naked and illuminated by the bright glow of his computer screen, frantically trying to record everything that was inside of his mind. Other nights she’d walk out of their room to get a drink of water or use the bathroom, only to find him sitting on the tile floor of the kitchen, bent over a notebook. His hands smeared with black ball point pen ink, and a cup of cold coffee next to him, proof that she’d beaten him to sleep yet again.

Dark bags decorated his eyes, pure blue eyes that she loved, that she never got to look into anymore. She remembered when she used to be what he’d look at, study, and tell his ideas to. She used to brush his black hair out of those blue eyes, ice blue eyes that were always gazing into the screen of a laptop these days. They would sit in the outside café in the morning, the one that’s across the street from his flat, eating blueberry filled doughnuts for breakfast. They sat in their favorite spot; under the willow tree and by the fountain, she liked to sit there best because the sun didn’t shine in her eyes and she liked the slight spray of water that the breeze carried with it.

He would scribble on napkins while she would try to speak to him of important things, like her day at the office or how the apartment needed to be cleaned. He would just nod his head at her, hair flapping down against his forehead. She would stare at him, tears filling her eyes, eyes pleading with him to acknowledge her. He would only write faster, poetic device after fragmented sentence danced across the napkin, around the café’s logo, then bleeding onto the table cloth. He’d look up at her, his eyes out of focus, sleep begging to consume his body. Her heart skipped a beat, hoping that he’d come back to her, only to be disappointed when he’d look back down and continue ignoring her.

“Lets go back,” she said, pushing away her chair, holding out her hand to him.

He blinked, looking up, the fog clearing, and nodded. Pen dead, and breakfast left untouched, he left his words behind.

This was how it always was.

And it was getting worse.

She would sit in the bathroom, pants around her ankles, crying into wads of toilet paper as he waited in the hallway for her to be done.

“I need to get ready for work,” he’d say, and she knew that he was completely fine sitting outside the door on the floor, notebook propped up against his knees. He didn’t particularly want to go to work, he was perfectly fine sitting at home doing what he was being paid to do. Going to work involved putting on a tie and being called Mr. At home he could write in his boxers and no one would speak to him. No one would bother him.

She knew this, and that’s why she would leave before him. She would slip out of the apartment and take the train to her desk job before he would even look up from whatever he was writing long enough to even notice she was gone. She felt it was more her job to leave undetected, without a goodbye kiss, without asking when she was going to be home; it was her job to become a ghost and fade out before he noticed.

“I have a presentation today,” he said into the oak wood that was locking her into the blue and white tiled bathroom. She could hear the sound of him standing up, his knees popping as tendons that shifted, his notebook flopping onto the floor. “What are you still doing here anyways? You’re usually gone by now.” he knocked on the door. “Are you okay in there?”

She sniffed, shoving another piece of toilet paper up her nose, dabbing another piece over her eyes, glad she hadn’t applied mascara and eye shadow yet. Standing up she pulled her pants up, zipping her fly, then flushing the porcelain toilet. Going to the sink she pressed her palms down next to the sink, looking at her bloated face in the mirror.

How long can I take this.

She pressed her forehead into her own reflection, the subtle thunk shaking the contains of the cabinet hidden on shelves behind the glass. Years worth of doctor visits, refills at the pharmacy, their entire medical history forgotten and untended to, there for everyone to see. She thought that maybe she was saving the different pain killers for a reason, for maybe when she got up the courage, so maybe someday she could die beautifully and give him something to really write about. So she could brand herself into his mind, and force him to think about her every day.

“Hey let me in,” she could hear the concern in his voice, but she couldn’t tell if it was for her, or for his presentation that he was going to be late to. She could never tell the different, not anymore.

He slapped his hand against the door and she turned, toilet paper falling out of her nose and landing in the sink, blood and snot encrusted on it. Bloodshot eyes wanted to eat through the door. She wanted to fall into his open arms and have him write on her body with his fingers as if she were one of his pieces of paper. She wanted to be decorated with his love like a book, but she didn’t feel that from him anymore. Or so she had herself convinced she didn’t.