His hand is cold. Palm, knuckles, fingertips. The black nail polish he always seems to wear is flaking off in places. I wonder if I should tell him. Wonder if he’d let me paint them for him. Wonder why I care.
His arm looks like the arm of a junkie, which I suppose he is, and I’m his poison. Veins trace up to his shoulder, bulging slightly with stolen blood. Sometimes when he wraps them around me, I imagine him squeezing just a little too tightly, killing me again, and I smile. Then I realize I’m still here with him, and the smile fades.
His back is a canvas I would love to mark up, that smooth expanse just begging for it. Shoulder blades poke out like the stunted wings of a bird. After a long night, it’s covered in a slick sheen of sweat. I like knowing I did that to him, tired him out. But then he sleeps, and it gets to be a different kind of complicated.
His chest is strong and hard, comfy in all the right places. A perfect pillow. The rise and fall of breathing is absent. It disturbs me, although I think I am getting used to it, which is disturbing in itself.
His legs are like a horse’s, long and lean. How many times has he walked up to me with that irresistible swagger that I’m sure took a long time to perfect? I think I’ve lost count.
His cock, and I blush just thinking about it, despite the things we’ve done, I have to say, is beautiful. It’s the one thing about him I always like. Big and long and bumpy in all the right places. I feel something when he’s in me, I’m just not sure what.
His body is perfection. He knows it, flaunts it. Sometimes I envy him for his confidence, the ease with which he moves. Even after all this time, I’m still not completely comfortable in my own body. My corpse. It’s part of the reason why I come to him. In his bed, I can forget all boundaries, our bodies connecting in a way that makes me feel not alone. I’m using him, I know, to make myself feel better. But he’s happy to help, has told me so many times, not always in words. I try to ignore him during the day, he’s my night time addiction, but he makes it hard. He gives me these looks that I’m sure one day the others will notice and then where will we be? Where will I be?
Turning over so I can’t look at him anymore, I close my eyes, willing sleep to overtake me. At least in dreams I can pretend he’s normal. That he’s someone I could be with in public. The last thing I hear is the sound of my heartbeat, pounding in my ears.
Author's Chapter Notes:
I do not own these characters. Originally posted on Livejournal, 2007.