Us praying. Meditating.
I get out of bed. It's six in the morning and the sun has not yet risen. The air feels cool and hard to the bone, my body tense and shedding the veils of sleep. He rests, still, his head reclined on a mass of pillows, his mouth slightly ajar, his chest slowly rising and falling. His face, ensconced in sleep, still betrays an innocence.
He is there. I here.
He rushes out the door in a flurry. I help him grab the essentials: wallet, phone, car keys. Earlier, I brewed coffee, boiled an egg and made him a sandwich, brought him coffee in bed and awoke him, gently. And later when I arrived with a second cup of coffee, he was already plying his stiff cock and presented it to me as I walked into the room. I take it in my own hands and gradually, faster and faster... "Bad boy. Naughty boy." He explodes all over his torso and on my hands. I lovingly clean it up.
We are what is not.
He leaves and I am alone. As per usual, stuck in this nebulous no-zone between eternity and the fixed star. The ache I feel deep in my belly pains me with a kind of grief for the day I inevitably will forfeit. There is a grand orchestra playing in my ears and I can hear the tin cans rattling, the fan vibrating, the sirens and engines and roars of distant machinery. I am encapsulated within myself, afraid of the music I mistake for noise, afraid of the day holding possibilities, afraid of the vision in the mirror. I wear myself down by my fear, whittling away until I get to the core dreaded terror of the unknown.
All is black. We are both metallic.
