Chess Pieces

i.

He is the quiet gentleness of dawn and the subtle restlessness of dusk. The combination of darkness and light that forms a golden glow.

ii.

I am false happiness. The kind that bleeds from misleading pictures and hides behind wide smiles. The kind of armour one wears in the hopes it might meld with their skin.

iii.

The air around us is still and patient, waiting like a flower. Needing sun and rain and receiving neither. Wilting.

iv.

We are chess pieces; him and I. Moving forwards and backwards in a strategic kind of dance. Trying for distance and giving in to the inevitable magnetic pull of each other’s presence.

v.

His vices are written beneath his skin in veins of blue pen. His virtues are drawn in the spiral of his fingerprints and the callouses on his palms. I cannot decide which mean more to me. My affection’s long to paint pictures of both.

vi.

I am the excited energy of mornings and the unwelcome sleepiness of afternoons. The time of day that takes too long and goes too quickly. A mixture of colours that don’t blend tastefully.

vii.

The oxygen surrounding us is thin and fleeting. As unbreathable as it is visible. I barely notice the emptiness of my lungs. I wonder if he does.

viii.

We are stumbling back and forth on a chess board. Surrounded by black and white and dreaming of grey. I am a pawn in a game I do not understand. Sometimes I wonder if he is too. Both of us standing face to face; unable to move; trapped. Helpless.

ix.

The board is tipped, the checkered ground tilting beneath us. I am falling. In another reality he might be too. In this one he is not.

x.

We meet at midday. Where warmth so easily turns to heat. Where shadows draw a harsh line. One I cannot cross. One he is on the other side of. (Where the grass is greener.)

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