If all we are are the feelings that rush through us, that sink anchors to the bottom of our stomachs, that light fires behind our eyes, and shoot lighting under the surface of our skin, that make our heartbeats echo; If all we are are our feelings, then he is not who he should be.
The way he is looked at across the three-foot mile between them is the way he wants to be looked at forever. He wishes he was closer. They are drunk and they are dancing late into the night. Everyone else has slowly departed until it is only the two of them, mixing in the clarity of this rare abandonment. They are both quiet, they are both introverted, anxious, and creative. They are both smiling. They are both looking at each other a lot. They are both trying to seem like good dancers. She has told him he is not as unattractive as he believes himself to be. He has not told her that he thinks she is cosmically beautiful, with eyes like planets. He has not told her that he finds some of the things she says relatable in ways that he has not been able to relate to anyone before. He has not told her that when she is around him she brings with her an addictive constant nervousness. He has not told her that without his control there have been occasions when he has felt it in his blood that he should kiss her.
He has not said anything, to her or anyone with words. But what his body and his behaviour say to people wordlessly is a bountiful source of worry. He doesn’t know if anyone suspects that he is secretly harbouring this emotional chaos. He wants to tell her immediately, so he can know
what she thinks about any of this. In his daydreams, she feels the same way. She is gridlocked into the same position as he is, and his breaking confession triggers her’s. There have been enough conflicting signs to dizzily interpret that he truly has no idea how she feels. Totally convinced and then totally lost within hours on some days. She could bless him or execute him with her response, and things would explode in euphoric fizz or internal violence as the heavily pressurised feelings are blown open in an instant. He has no idea how much he might be hurt in that demolition, but what is certain is that it will wipe out the foundations he has built his life on. You can’t help how you feel, but it is his burden to meticulously hide it, to painfully squeeze this part of his heart down in a vice so it is small enough to remain out of sight. But not tonight.
Tonight is the colour of her eye contact, the shape of compatible physical motion. Tonight is the taste of how this might have acted out in another lifetime. This scene could be lifted directly from the alternate version of events, in which there is nothing to lose. His drunken heart whispers this to his disarmed brain, and he cannot help but wonder… Would he look into her calm eyes? Would they connect with his? Would she smile first with those eyes, then with her lips, then with her ultraviolet teeth? Would he pull together the nerve to sail closer? Would she drift in too? Would they start to generate electricity between them as their presences became closer than they had ever been? Would she brush his arm? Would their breaths shorten as the air between them became thin? Would he reach over the shoulders of grappling reason to put a gentle hand on her waist? Would his heart start to beat so strongly she could feel it through his touch? Would her hand find his hip like the seatbelt of a rollercoaster? Might he have to lean down to dance like this? Might that put their faces close enough to hear each other’s thoughts? Would he watch her eyes widen closely enough to catch his own already dilating in the swirling reflection of hers? Might he notice her lips fall open slightly, slipping out of their smile, and into something else? Might he feel every impulse in his body fire all at once as he feels her breath on his face? Might his blood spike when her eyes slowly shut? Might every one of his nerves shiver and shatter as their noses brush against each other? Might time slow as they hesitate millimetres away? Might their lips melt together? Might chemical reactions explode across their brains like fireworks in heavy air? Might her fingers move to trace his collarbone, the centre of his chest? Might he softly hold her cheek, her jaw, the top of her neck? Might their minds wash blank of anything that is not this and their heartbeats crack their ribs? Might they still feel the warmth of the other’s body after they finally draw back out? Might they now look at someone new to who they saw before, someone with which they have now done something irreversible?
Quit Vision 