We Are Rolling, We Are Decaying

We Are Rolling, We Are Decaying

May gives birth to noir nights, raises them to be June mornings. We were close to the end. I was high. And in the background was the van, and the van was moving restless, and I knew that she was giving him what he wanted. And I was happy for it to be happening. Because for so long he had been asking. The field we were parked in was desolate and dry, it was seven miles the other way, smelled of stagnant pond water and a damp mud that clumped together in the soles of shoes. Tonight marked the return of the summer heat sucking the sweet from the world like a parasite, and leaving only the dry and humid behind, gasping. The boy was not familiar. Sure, his name, but not the individual. Sitting on a grass-stained, grey blanked, he had become my briefest problem. And then he was on my neck, and then he was rubbing his calloused hands on my upper leg, lips parted slightly to let out slow breaths and I could smell the weed that tattooed itself on his tongue and it was hot in my ear. And then I let him kiss me, sloppy and impassioned, the cotton shirt hanging slightly off his body tickling my stomach, and my mind somewhere else, evaporating into a foggy unclear. The hustle to remove clothes, and his chuckle when he couldn't unclasp my bra, his fingers acting like clumsy drunks. There was a brief moment, between gasps, that I felt sad; he did not fill me with heart-shaped arrows or memories that last. Fleeting fires that burn the intensity of one moonlight encounter into your nose, no, he was not important, just something warm to run my hands over. They tell me I was used. They don't believe me when I straightly say I know.
I saw myself, I saw us, two strangers with no shared memories, or inexplicable, inherent reasons to be loyal to one another, laying among the leaves and the trees and the Friday night transparency.
If you are ever feeling like the stars are filling your throat, or that you are the only one who has ever felt this loneliness, remember you are not special, not a worshiped constellation or a story anyone cares to retell. And the feeling of bare nothingness, like insatiable hunger, doesn't go away.
The parts of living that are hardest are the ones that make you feel like dying.