It's one am and I try to hold back the tears, wincing as they sting the corners of my eyes, begging to be released. I'm just not that strong, and they fall cascading down my cheeks. You'd think I'd...
- - -
It's one am, and the rest of the band is out partying somewhere, celebrating the new tour. I told them that my head hurt - not a complete lie. It's not my head, it's my heart that's in pain. It's a quiet kind of heartache - the gentle throbbing in your chest that physically hurts, but is only a reminder of the scars left by another. It's the kind of heartache that occurs when you're grieving a loss. A feeling that your heart has been ripped into millions of pieces, a vase that shattered into so many fragments it'll never be put together again. If anyone bothers to gather the pieces and reconstruct it, then great chunks are missing; who wants a vase with holes?
It's one am and I try to hold back the tears, wincing as they sting the corners of my eyes, begging to be released. I'm just not that strong, and they fall cascading down my cheeks. You'd think I'd be a little over it by now, after three months.
You'd better think again.
It's one am as my fingers trace the intricately carved edge of my hotel room's desk. I've got a spotlessly clean piece of paper out, an attempt at trying to pour out the grief that is bottled up within me. The paper is still perfectly white, unmarred by any pen I wield. I'm still stuck in writer's block, even after these months of sadness. I glance at the picture that I still keep near, and a faint memory of a day long past floods me completely. Finally, the pen moves.
- - -
It was an overcast afternoon, and Bailey, my longtime friend, and new girlfriend, and I were alone in her apartment. I sat on the ratty, old beaten-up couch and she sat on the floor, next to the glass coffee table. I stared up at the ceiling as she rambled on about something ridiculous - I wasn't paying attention. My attention was focused on the spackled ceiling. I like the word 'spackled.' It's fun to say, and it gives the walls and ceilings a great effect when -
"Earth to Peter, earth to Peter," Bailey said, knocking me out of my day-dreams.
"Yes, oh dearest?"
"Were you listening?" she asked, pouting as she placed her hands on her hips.
I finally looked over at her. "No. My eardrums burst after the first two minutes. Do you ever shut up?"
She flashed a sly grin. "Nope."
"Will you at least quiet down then?"
Bailey furrowed her eyebrows in mock consideration. "Let me think . . . ah, NO."
I just rolled my eyes, that not even deserving a response.
Suddenly, her whole face lit up with a burst of inspiration. "I've got an idea . . . let's sing!"
"God help us all," I groaned. "Bay, there's a reason neither of us are the lead singer of Fall Out Boy, you know."
In response, she burst out into a very loud, badly sung version of 'Respect.'
"If you don't shut your mouth now, I'll have to come over there and shut it for you," I warned.
"I'd like to see you try, old man. Let me see your moves," she taunted, standing up and mocking me. "R-E-S-P-E-C-T!" she yelled just before darting off, giggling and singing loudly.
"Fine, but you brought this upon yourself you know. So when you get hurt, don't come crying to me." I got up and chased her round the coffee table.
"What you want, baby I got it . . ."
"Bailey, get your fat ass back over here."
"What you need, baby I got it," she sang. "Andmyassismostcertainlynotfat," she said in between breaths.
I smirked. "Bailey Mikal, you'd better . . ." In the middle of my sentence, my foot had caught on the corner of the table, and I was nose to thread with the carpeted floor. In the process, my ankle had twisted badly, and I winced in pain.
"Ooooh, shit. Are you alright?" she whispered, quieting down for once.
"Oh, I'm just peachy keen. I just thought it was so nice down here, so I decided to lay here for a while instead of getting back up," I retorted.
Bailey looked at me with a satisfied look on her face. "Yeah, you're fine," she said, offering her hand as I gingerly stood up, avoiding putting any weight at all on the injured ankle. "Well, you're as okay as someone like you can be, because you're definately not what most people consider to be 'okay,' any-"
I grinned as I leaned in to kiss her.
"Oh," was all she said when we finally broke apart. Her beautiful cerulean eyes were open wide.
"So it is actually possible for you to shut up," I murmured, looking softly at her.
With a slow smile, she gazed back at me. "Only for you, Wentz."
- - -
I shake my head, clearing out the fog. It's one am, and I'm famous, traveling the country with my amazing bandmates. All you've got is a bunch of memories, and a broken photograph.
so let me see your moves,
let me see your moves.
Lips pressed close to mine,