After the Fall - Will Graham
He sees me in figures, opportunities, behind his eyelids. When he sleeps, he sees me, knows I am there beside him. And I lay willingly, still through the night. My heart beats like that of a docile lamb, comfortable in the notion of its slaughter. Upon waking, I will look upon him absent of resentment, eyes stretched wide in a smile while my lips remain still. His eyes will crinkle at the corners, and I will not be thinking of the frigid hell which I cast us into. I will remember his soft timbre assuring me that I was forgiven, and he will remember when I kissed the same assurance unto him.
I will not always sleep so soundly--nor will he. Some nights, our sleepless brains will sync up, and we will wordlessly lay in the purgatorial haze we have made for ourselves, and for each other. The salty tang of sweat, he says, is a reassurance. I don’t sweat as much as I used to, and my brain isn’t quite so sweet, but I do not protest to the heat of his arms around me. The only fevers I will suffer through are born of rainy days and busy city centres, and the heat of his body, his hands.
I often remember her soft touch, nothing in comparison. Her voice, a twanging croon. Her memory is nothing but a grim reminder of the filler in the meat--the juicy, bloody steak which Hannibal has artfully seared. He is the lean, he is the perfect cook and cut. The fat around the edges is regrettable, but occasionally, I believe it is me.
He is my absolution, as equally as he is the cause of my descent into hell. Where I once struggled, I now walk with leasiure. One hand runs along cool stone walls, ragged stucco, the sheets of our bed, the metallic railing of a boat. The other has its fingers tightly laced with his around a shared, bleeding heart. It beats, thrumming into me. I meet his eyes, sanguine pits of possibility, and I feel it thrumming into him, too.
