hello. so here we are, with approximately 11 hours and 44 minutes to go (pacific time, don't argue!). this DW is nowhere as personal to me as my LJ is, but it is synched to FB, so i feel slightly obligated to make one of those cliché, end-of-the-year posts here. except this post isn't so cliché (i hope).

so, here's some spur-of-the-moment, 10-minutes-long writing. don't expect to have an epiphany (or any phenomenal reaction, for that matter) upon clicking the cut.

cigarettes taste sweeter, they say, when stolen from another's lips.

he's playing the piano as if it's their last night on earth. he plays of industrial cities and crooked alleys, of the waters of the oceans that flow, disguised, through unknown lives, of moonlit walks along a river he's never been to with someone he can never be with. in two measures, he's playing vivace in alla breve, fingers running across the keys like the blood running through his veins, hot and urgent and alive—

"hey."

—and stops, letting the cool air wash over his body. he releases the pedal and stares beyond the black and white keys, waiting for the last notes of the unfinished measure to fade. his roommate doesn't speak, only moves to the balcony, cigarette already tucked between his fingers. he follows because he dreams of the ancient clichés that they never say on nights like this one, and because he knows it's the other's way of wanting to talk. he touches two fingers to his wrist and imagines that their hearts are really connected and that his pulse is really the other's.

“don't.” his friend breathes out, a small puff of pollution against the crisp night air. he looks up.

“what?”

“you know,” the other gestures, and he realizes his hands are shaking and it's not from the cold, “don't.”

he reaches for the other's cigarette. “i'm trying.”

they've been through too much this year for him to be affected this way, the other probably knows. one look at his friend and he confirms it. they don't speak, but the other runs cold fingers over his wrist, the pad of his thumb pressing into the soft skin pulsing with life. his friend murmurs inaudibly but he smiles because he knows what the other's said anyway.

"i am ready for something new."

"might be worse."

he breathes out and remembers that his heart doesn't beat in sync with the other's, only alongside, that they're connected by not two silver strings but one--

“live today as if it's your last.” his roommate whispers, cliché on the tip of his tongue just like he expected, except the other's lips don't move and he stares harder, takes another sip of nicotine, and shuts his eyes against the dull city lights.

as if you'll never see tomorrow. and he takes the unspoken words to heart.


happy (almost) new year! :)

last but not least, i'd like to say the following to the current and upcoming year:

dear 2009,
thank god you're over. may you disappear into history forever.
no love, me.

dear 2010,
don't fuck up my boys. thanks.
pending love, me.