He is truly there before me with half-closed nebula eyes and a long stretch of pale skin. I want to trace his rosy, full lips with my fingers, memorizing where the tip of his cupid's bow is. My fingers rise, fall, and dip in the reminders of his age; each and every scar is new in my memory. Wrinkles, a map. His eyes open and close in the rhythm of my touch. From deep in the hollows of his naked chest, rises a growl of pleasure, pure humanity and carelessness in the hum of his moans. His body smells of salt and a subsiding sweetness from leftover perfume applied in an early morning haze, when sleep still exhausts the flesh and the mind. I take his damp hands between my own and examine the curves of his long, elegantly thin fingers which remind me of the pianists that surrounded my childhood and filled the stilled night skies with melodies. I take one of his fingers and taste the briny flesh knowing this may be the end.
Love is a pathetic excuse to hide behind when one doesn't want to live and die in pleasure's arms. We were careless of our hearts and cared only for the sweet rush of breaths that our helpless bodies gave birth to. We were melodies in the silent nights, a clash of ages and memories augmented by the senses. We were entirely and undeniably alive, sparks of light in the gutter.














