I move through glass. There is a boy whose hand I hold, and it is cold to touch. I pull him towards me, even as light, viscous with all its imagined weight, separates us. For the light is a witness, and to it our intertwined fingers a crime. He barely resists, almost in a daze. I do not know where I lead us, only that I do. Sound blooms against my eyelids, the force of my echoing breath leaving imprints on the glass I push through. I swim through honey, my limbs leadened by both the texture of the medium and the texture of time. It is porcelain, his hand. I look back to see a painted face. A grin made sly by the mulberry smudged against it. Eyes made conniving by a swipe of the night distilled into paint. A warrior, I would like to call him, even as he dresses to submit. I blink and he is gone, fingers still ice but face now washed. The light adores him, kissing his face until he is a smudge against glass, a smudge of ink against my fingers. They remain cold. That is the only indication that he follows. For I am Orpheus and he, Eurydice and to lead us out of hell, I must not doubt him.
I want to see him again, the want squeezing my heart until I am but a sharp inhale. I want to hold more of him, to be greedy with him, the way the light is. I want to ghost his jaw with kisses, until his month finds mine and my heart finds his and then to frame him, to press his beauty under glass.
So that both I and the light might share him.Lay equal claim to his cold skin, warming it by painting him the Sun and by crawling under his skin, animating him from within. We might make a God out of him, let the honeybees make their home in his honey laden mouth, between his rosebud lips. I’d worship him as he worships me, body laid bare.
He will cry, I think, when I tell him the truth.
I waltz through honey I imagine spilling out of my mouth. Out of his mouth. Mouth against mouth until I can’t tell where he begins and I end. Honey smeared against our bodies. Our body. The light takes pity on me, and lets me live my folly. Everything is glass. Everything is painted yellow, summer nips at our heels and I turn.
What a sin it is to love. To linger. I am Orpheus and he Eurydice. We have resurrected History through lips bruised from meeting too often. Through spoonfuls of honey that we slip into the other’s mouths, anointing the other. I lead and the boy follows, and we move through glass.
(based on a dream I had recently t-t)
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