Nocturne

Updated on February 27, 2018
Bhargavi Acharya profile image

97 born and a bookworm, I am an awkward potato finding her way to become a french fry.

We love the dark. Simple.

Mornings are beautiful – with the birds singing and the sun shining – a new beginning to a new 24-hour life. Every new day, we gather our fallen pieces from the bed, put them in their places, get up and stretch – knocking our conscience into places along with our bones. We brush the taste off each other’s mouths, swollen lips a tingling reminder to what few hours before the moments held. We shower each other’s scent off, clothing our nakedness in perfumes. Ironed clothes donned on the body, messy hair shaped to perfect up-do, coffee cup in a hand to wake up the drunken state of our bloodstreams, we step into our footwear embracing what reality holds and step on the ground.

We build back our exterior as morning breaks itself into a day. You see, light makes scars visible so we hide them, hiding ourselves as well. We’re too conscious of the pretty picture the world sees. And then we bruise into it. The reality, social life, family and everything in between. We grind our conscience between those. We let it squeeze out the idealist in us. We let others live a little of us. We let them churn us till the evening sets off its soothing shades and beckons us with those fingers, making the realist in us wary of itself.

And then the evening prepares to break us. We step into the apartment, lock the door and unlock ourselves. The realist, idealist, conscious part of us goes to sleep. We step out of our shoes, step on the cold floor tiles and take flight. The day’s headache falls off as hair is let loose from the tight bun. We wash off the perfect face, water scorching those same swollen lips as the lip gloss rolls off. Buttons unhinge from the holes in the shirt, zippers go down as pants glide down those legs. Clothes are just a wet and soggy mess on the bathroom floor. The day’s grime finds its way down the drain with sweat and perfume, every drop of water awakening the skin, making it hyper aware of everything, the cold air where the water isn’t hitting, the burning rivulets going down the stomach and the silky hair tresses matting the scalp. The naked body finds its way into comfortable pajamas, ignoring the fact that it’s going to be useless. And we build up our anticipation as the exterior starts crumbling, between stolen pecks and caressing hands to naughty grabs, we let the anticipation build. And as the lights outside start dimming and the world is nothing but a beautiful painting of twinkling lights when the clock chimes midnight and the darkness overlaps the sky, we let the moonlight do what the sunshine cannot in a hundred million years – we let it burn us and awaken the dreamer. Lips find each other and taste moans in appreciation. Arms embrace as the exterior completely falls and nothing remains but for us our senses and our heartbeats.

And.
We.
Burn.
Better.
Than.
Any.
Damn.
Star.

We let the animal out, we let the hunger consume us and leave scratch marks on our skins. We let blood get drunk on each other’s scent. We grab hair and kiss the breath out of each other’s lungs. We kiss those scars we hide in the daylight. We lose ourselves and soak in nirvana. We fuck. We love. We live. We die. We own the night. We become the night.

Yeah, we love the darkness. Simple.

© 2018 Maddie Sawyer

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