He won’t let him talk again, for he has failed in the art of beekeeping, as a subtle fragrance trails his frugal body.
In an instant, not too distant, he has spoken of many places and of man lovers, and he has told me again of what he desires, and what he desires is not too apparent, but there is enough doubt to think, there is an indication somewhere of being abandoned, of being forgiven.
He closes again, the fist becomes a hand so warm and soothing, a gentle touch that carries compassion untold, but pulsating, and in between, a romantic endeavor, a sweet song sung, a movement of bones, crackling, breaking, and inserting themselves into a relationship.
“What will you do when we are no longer in love? When we can exist without each other’s company?”
“But how could that happen, unless one desires it, or unless one, inadvertently, creates such a situation? Enough time has passed, and you understand me as far as I go.”
“I will decide then, if I have to keep you until death or until I say no more.”
He understands his words and he employs them well in his thoughts, in all kinds of acts. But there comes a moment, in the whirlwind of feelings, in a torrent of strange mannerisms, in the obtuse turmoil of exchanges, that someone is prettier, more extravagant, sexier, more deserving of praise, attention, and awe. He will carry that power throughout his life, with a smile encompassing a plethora of magnificent addendums, and the other will follow along, dragged from the ankles, chained, desperate, tainted in a befuddled form of envy.
He must caress the hand, that belongs to the neck, that opens the slit of the dagger in the mouth, which kisses the stomach that flops in the back that carries the weight of the head dancing in parallel, in a destiny so entangled, so maddeningly interesting, that he thinks that there is no way that one could abandon the other, and the other one thinks that there is no way one could die before the other and enjoy another life, another try at failure.
“Why don’t you love me enough?”
“Why do you need so much love, at all times, with such precision, knowing exactly who I am, and what I do, and what I want, and what I will be forever.”
He kisses again and he follows along, as always, with a minute, long enough to understand the position of the most pleasurable center. What does it mean that the ecstasy of the mind, a loving union of two corpses revived, does not translate in the bodies, who try, and lick, and wander, and dispossess, and freak out together?
“But it will be enough, to feel so empty, because the rest I get it from you, in another life, away from here.”
“Give us enough time, and it will happen, simultaneously, I might add. And that will be the cause and the effect, or we will both die.”
And he is believed and he believes it so, and the nights rage indefinitely, in the slithering doubts.