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The Cube
He is me, yes, but not entirely. Once he kissed the forehead, filled with love for my exhausted existence. Being patronized is repugnant to my nature, but resistance, objections, and any discussions now seem overwhelming.
Even in solitude, when there is no desire to see anyone, Paracelsus finds a way to approach and starts a conversation, and due to almost complete silence in response, it turns into a monologue. And to him it matters not – because before leaving he touches the face with lips created not for kissing cheeks. Especially mine, cold.
At the moment when a wet trace remains on my lips too, Paracelsus’s face expresses nothing. To hide fright is impossible. There is no one closer to me than him. And by this we commit a crime against everyone, meaning, I, as an accomplice, must silently agonize over it. An invisible boundary is crossed, and lo, still startled, I freeze, awaiting continuation. He is almost me, and for an unknown reason, my soul is not disgusted.
With time, I too already reach for a kiss, or rather, not only for it, but strive for any warmth, like a moth to the light, hitherto unaware that it has such a need at all. His eyes are always on me, I presume, imbued with yearning for the shared past and what was left there. Paracelsus knows that to all this I am deeply indifferent.
The new about myself surprises. Something has appeared that even I could not foresee. Let alone that I will lie with him. That I will touch him differently; that he will touch like a lover.
Though it is flat there and always was so.
The neck and chest are showered with kisses, entire conflagrations, stronger than which even the most furious inner disputes did not burn. The fear that he loves me does not leave, but weakens against the background of caresses that gifted my body. As if the desire to quench thirst does not pass from frequent gulps.
I am embarrassed. Lust becomes visible, marks flush on the skin, resembling the petals of his rose, but Paracelsus will not allow himself to take me at a moment of deep vulnerability. On the contrary, he brings to major convulsions, does not retreat for a second, striving to exhaust all being, while I recognize this warmth, yield, naming it something greater than another memory.
The finale is not yet near. The end is seen by me as total wordlessness. In this silence, Paracelsus takes away the remnants of dread and former detachment, and along with them – my chastity.
I commit to memory your sighs, the vise of living satin, and the confession encrypted in them. Until the end.
