Entrails of a Machine

It was the hopeless of nights. I was desperate to see him again, to hear him talk again, to tell me I'm different. Words from our previous conversations echoed in my head, I'm sorry, but I think I need you more than you need me. He needs me, that's a relief. But I need him the most. I need him for myself.

The first time we talked, all I did was stare into his beautiful, moon-shaped face that exudes a paralyzing glow. His eyes were constantly glued to the ground, save for the times he punctuates some of his sentences: a soft, brushing glare at me. I see myself in him. He was exactly like me. All I want to do is sit with him in a dusty corner and wait til night comes. But I can't.

It hurts but I just love him so much, he'd say. And I tell him it's okay, it's okay. I listen to every word he says. Most times I pray that he'll talk to me more than to him. I'd be everything he'd always wanted because...just 'cause. 

Beneath the rotting branches of a tree, I sat waiting for him. From afar, I saw him, and he gave me that tired smile that makes me want to wrap him in a blanket and cook him breakfast in the morning.

How are you? he asked.

Same shit. You?

I don't know. I don't know anymore, Yohan. 

I don't know, too. I stared at the sky like we always do, and said in a suppressed, cheerful tone, well there's a star! He chortled. He rummaged through his bag and got out something from the folds of his handkerchief. He slapped me on my left chest, and when I looked, there was a cluster of small purple flowers sticking onto my shirt.

Forget-me-nots, he said, his eyes on the ground. He was smiling, and I like it when he smiles.

I stared at the tiny cluster and noticed two intertwined flowers. I see myself, sleeping in his arms, waiting for the two of us to wilt in between pages of a Spanish novelette.

We'd know.