Monday, June 27, 2016 @ 11:52 PM
White Dirty Tiles
One calm evening and white, dirty tiles.
It was 1994. I remember laughter and silence, both at the same time filling the blurry thin air from one day in July. From somewhere deep, far in the inside of my head and it would take forever to find out where it came from.
And it's blurry, and grey. Grey with a hint of green and yellow—dirty yellow. And beside me was Jane, with her loud voice and a pair of glasses—and they were too big for her pair tiny eyes. On my left was Diana, and she was always calm and deadly. Diana was always like a river. You always went too deep with how words rolled out of her mouth, and the next thing you know was that you missed an argument and you always wanted to forget about it forever. And beside Diana was Parker. The big annoying Parker who always spoke far too much for his own good. Parker smells like cheap burnt cigarettes and smoke, and nobody liked him. But everybody acted the other way around.
And across from me was you. I remember a white shirt, 2 top buttons opened because it was cloudy and hot. And you said it twice ("It's so hot!"), and nobody noticed. But I did, and I felt pathetic.
The next things that happened were in a form of a big blurry image of grey—with a hint of green and yellow, dirty yellow—and some dead serious arguments. You, raising your eyebrows whenever Parker raised his voice. Parker, rolling his eyes whenever Jane started her first stage of drama. Jane, dumbly falling into Diana's calm and deadly pace of persuading. Diana, slowly building an argument against me though no words had escaped my mouth. And me, slowly falling into a pair of crescent eyes that defined your life.
Eyes are the window to one's soul, and your eyes are madness in its gentlest form.
And I don't even remember the rest of that day. Just you, in your loose white shirt and face decorated in a thin layer of sweat. And laughter, your laughter. A laughter that turned your eyes into a pair of crescent-like shapes. An odd laughter in the middle of a heated discussion on something that I don't even remember about.
Also another you. Perhaps less than 15 minutes and more than 10 minutes after the pointless discussion we had. You, on your back. Looking at the ceiling with wide wondering eyes. Laying on those white, dirty tiles that are as cold as that heart of yours.
It was grey. Grey with a hint of green and yellow—dirty yellow
It was 1994. I remember laughter and silence, both at the same time filling the blurry thin air from one day in July. From somewhere deep, far in the inside of my head and it would take forever to find out where it came from.
And it's blurry, and grey. Grey with a hint of green and yellow—dirty yellow. And beside me was Jane, with her loud voice and a pair of glasses—and they were too big for her pair tiny eyes. On my left was Diana, and she was always calm and deadly. Diana was always like a river. You always went too deep with how words rolled out of her mouth, and the next thing you know was that you missed an argument and you always wanted to forget about it forever. And beside Diana was Parker. The big annoying Parker who always spoke far too much for his own good. Parker smells like cheap burnt cigarettes and smoke, and nobody liked him. But everybody acted the other way around.
And across from me was you. I remember a white shirt, 2 top buttons opened because it was cloudy and hot. And you said it twice ("It's so hot!"), and nobody noticed. But I did, and I felt pathetic.
The next things that happened were in a form of a big blurry image of grey—with a hint of green and yellow, dirty yellow—and some dead serious arguments. You, raising your eyebrows whenever Parker raised his voice. Parker, rolling his eyes whenever Jane started her first stage of drama. Jane, dumbly falling into Diana's calm and deadly pace of persuading. Diana, slowly building an argument against me though no words had escaped my mouth. And me, slowly falling into a pair of crescent eyes that defined your life.
Eyes are the window to one's soul, and your eyes are madness in its gentlest form.
And I don't even remember the rest of that day. Just you, in your loose white shirt and face decorated in a thin layer of sweat. And laughter, your laughter. A laughter that turned your eyes into a pair of crescent-like shapes. An odd laughter in the middle of a heated discussion on something that I don't even remember about.
Also another you. Perhaps less than 15 minutes and more than 10 minutes after the pointless discussion we had. You, on your back. Looking at the ceiling with wide wondering eyes. Laying on those white, dirty tiles that are as cold as that heart of yours.
It was grey. Grey with a hint of green and yellow—dirty yellow
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