In the city by the sea

it hurts. digging in till you're wrist deep in ribs hurts.
you twist and turn and struggle with effort, and then there's a huge gaping splcuk sound and your ribcage heaves open and lo behold there lies the black cavernous heart thumping, bloody, bruised veins popping with the exertion of living.
and you hold it open for him.
he reaches in, with such slow movement that the wait and yearning is almost painful. your breath catches at contact of fingertip with heart.
the fingertip, it reaches through. slowly, carefully.
and your heart, it hurts after such a long time.
blood seeps through the gap. you weep.
you lie in bed alone at night, yearning.
you remember radha and krishna, and understand why radha means longing.
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you're both standing in line, you're mentally replaying the order in your mind and calculating how much change you'll probably get. you're holding your wallet in your hand, tapping your leg in impatience. the woman ahead of you seems to be six feet tall, and has the most beautiful children. you suddenly glance over to him, and he seems hypnotized by something. you follow his gaze to your wallet. puzzled, you look at him, but he ignores you.
he reaches forward, slowly, with a fingertip, oblivious to the TV over his head showing some Oxfam woman giving a speech.
he reaches past the wallet stuck in midair in your hand, past your fingertips, and toward the white city fm 89 bracelet on your wrist. you look at his hand as it almost reverently reaches past the bracelets nestled on your wrist, and touches your arm as if its the most fragile thing in the world. as if you're a china figurine, as if you'll suddenly break and shatter and he'll wake up.
he's not breathing. neither are you. one finger touches the arm that’s stuck in mid air that you can't seem to move, touches it as if to see if you're real. as if to test the color of your skin and see if it'll rub off.
"EXCUSE ME PLEASE" the guy behind the cash register says.
you both jump, you guiltily snatch your wrist away and you both step forward and he turns his attention to the guy to order.
you try not to notice the smirks.
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he sits splayed across a narrow leather sofa, the concealed light in the wood beam throwing shadows of his eyelashes on his cheekbones. he reaches for his phone, nonchalantly chomping on the red thing they give you mix coffee, and leans over and proudly and shows you a video he took with his phone when you weren't looking.
you're playing back on a screen, intent on your phone, your hair splayed across his chest in a way you don't remember in your mind. he has to lean really close to show it to you, because he's afraid you'll grab his phone and delete that awful clip he took of you saying he was right.
you have to look, and then blink at the mutually embarrassed look you share in a restaurant full of people you momentarily forgot about.
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you sit in a new restaurant with a friend from childhood you haven't seen in months. the noise and smoke level is horrific, and the waiter is stupider than ever. your sunglasses are on your head and your friend is bitching out work while sipping her vile glass of Perrier. you take a bite of the fish, and suddenly remember him holding your feet in the car to warm them up, and the delicious curl of your stomach flipping at unexpected heat. your friend gives you a strange look, and you suddenly snap to attention and have to make the prerequisite hums and haws of sympathy.
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you sit awake at night. unable to sleep.
so you write.