Syntheanasia

Our bodies are inches apart on a bench layered in snow. We’ve been sitting here so long that snow has settled on us. Talking, for hours, just as friends. Our bodies black, the rest is white. Simple as that.

There is a break in the conversation as we let our thoughts catch up with us. It stopped snowing a while ago but there is still that brilliant silver mist from the moment after ice falls from the sky. He turns to face me. Hesitates, then brings his eyes up to meet me. I study his face, I’ve never been this close before.

With every breath, soft blue swirls departing from his mouth. Gently at first, but as I watch them they get faster. Rushing from his mouth and smashing gently across my face. I smile, as for a moment he is completely dispersed in soft blue silk and golden sparkles. As he inhales the pattern recedes and I’m able to see his eyes once more.

He brushes his hand across my shoulder and it feels like a flute, slowing getting ready to play an entire piece. My heart flutters and my eyes flutter with it. He exhales and the pattern starts all over again, except even bigger and out of control. Drums play in time with the flute with each stroke. Gently at first, as a subtly beat whispering in the background. Then everything starts getting louder, and busier. I can barely see him, but I sense that he is moving in. The symbols start the shudder with the drums. I know how close he is my the breath on my cheek. So close that the blue pattern breaks waves on my face, the splash of each on almost blinding me.

Its getting so thunderous I’m afraid I might go deaf. He’s so close. Nearly touching my lips. I tremble at the thought. Wait through this blue cloud for our bodies to make contact.

But as I blindly purse my lips a snowflake lands on the softest part of their skin. Its harsh intrusion breaks my thought. I can see him now, his clear eyes and colourless skin. His bodies so fragile without the pattern. My ear drums ring from the absence of sound.

More snowflakes fall and I lean back and take a breath. He sits back on the bench and stares forwards. Away from me. The soft aftermath of the pattern dancing off into the air.

I notice the heaviness of his arm on my shoulder. Like a dead weight that is too stiff to move. He’s moved up the bench slightly making the arm look unnatural, as though he’s too afraid to move it now. I wipe the snowflake off my lip. It tastes sharp.

The snow flakes fall and there is black and white. That’s all we are. That’s all well ever be.