theroseclub peachspit ❤️

god, what shit.

it was strange what he was feeling. or perhaps the absence of feeling. an utter crevice of nothingness, that cut the ends of his fingers on which he sucked as he watched him across the room with a group of girls.

he wondered why on earth he had been invited, wondered more why he had even come. and in such a crappy Hawaiian t-shirt? what was he thinking?

nothing.

he never thought anything these days. everything was in, out, everything turned to water.

Everything was water, is water. Viscous, thickening, in one ear (often during pool parties ) and stuck, only to be removed by some crappy cream you bought at the pharmacists two weeks too late. It was a pool party last year. But this year he thought it would have been a good idea to just chat with friends. Conversation is never a good idea. Conversation in his mind was just a mess of things that meant things he didn't want them to mean and hidden lust that came out in the wrong way and just overall shitiness. The alcohol helped a little. Or perhaps it just oiled the throat. Allowed things to back up a bit easier.

Oh, what a big day it was for him. A day that declared the maturation of one's mind, the ripening of one's spirit, the freshness of one's sexuality, the boldness of one's demeanour.

Was it in spite that he had been invited, to reveal the ending of their anything, to cut short the so called passion of their embrace. To proclaim that he had, as he had so eloquently put in three months ago after they had fucked that he was ' over it ' and that ' he was more into girls anyway ' and then by text reminding that they should, of course, remain friends 'forever'.

What intellect he had bestowed him with, what blooming. All to be disregarded as a 'stage', a learning curve, part of the greater good of one boys long and fruitful life.

And now it was finally over. And he had accepted it now, not that he ever rejected the realisation. He had done nothing. Not been vexed or melancholy, nor gracious and humble in the discarding of a lover. The nothingness has thickened, stuck to itself, piled into more and more nothingness. And now the nothingness filled everything.

He felt it now, the nothingness. Welling, waning, waxing, deep inside him. He wondered if that unholy 'birthday boy' felt the same nothingness, fluctuating somewhere in that sweat adorned body that he flaunted so gracefully. It was a sight for tired eyes, a gentle sight, as his lashes fluttered and cheeks blushed and the birthday boy's eyes wandered to the empty boy standing on the other side of the room.