“Yeah.”
I lift my chin. “But you told me.”
He nods, so damn slowly it hurts to watch. But the beat goes on.
My stomach travels up and up and lodges itself in my throat. “Because I’m only for fucking, right? Not loving.”
He looks at me like he wants to pull me into him and mend my fractured heart. But it must be his own pain I see in the lines across his forehead, the heartwrench in his eyes.
“And for fixing you,” I add, looking away from the intensity in his stare.
The quietest words leave him. “That’s right.”
My heart plummets to depths lower than I thought possible. I reach for anger to extinguish the sorrow. “Then what are we doing here? You can’t fuck me. Or love me. Or barely talk to me about real shit. What’s the point?”
He tilts his head to each side as if preparing for a fight to the death, then this troubled, many-souled man sings.
And I can’t take my eyes off him. The way he attacks the drumswith full-body movements, so fluid and jarring at once. The way he slips into another world. And brings me with him. His feet never let up, one hitting the pedal, the other the stage. His elbows are loose and wild. He plays faster and faster, the sticks a blur. And his face. That look. He’s living the song, breathing it. He bites his lower lip and scrunches his nose between verses, letting the beat carry him deeper into the moment. But the words, they lure me in. They tie me up and tighten their hold until I’m breathless.
I’ll part the heart that lingers
Play the part that stings
Be the poison that goes down sweet
And sweep you off your feet
Only broken hearts can sing
Don’t be surprised if you never walk again
If every breath is sourced from mine
If nothing falls in line
If you see a hundred thousand men
When you look into my eyes
Only broken hearts can sing
I’m more than a soul, more than a mind
More than memories combined
One heart is all it takes
One death
One breath
One beat
One song
He throws the sticks down and turns to me as he stands. I scold my heart for its scattered thumps and jumps, the damn riot in my chest. He pulls out his knife. “On your feet, little prisoner.”
My chest compresses, forcing a defiant huff of air from my lungs. My lips sharpen into a smirk. “Make me.”
