The darkness dances in the slight hollows under your cheekbones, in the
delicate beat of the pulse at your throat, and in the shadows under your
eyes, etched so deeply as to resemble scars, permanently engraved into your
visage by sights no man should see.
Your aristocratic mouth is twisted into a merciless smile—the ruthless
amusement of a madman—but the jade glitter of your eyes is as cold and as
sane as diamonds.
You are perfectly still as I approach, leaning against the wall, the pallor
of your face—so white against the darkness of your soul—reminding me of
some pagan deity; the type who feeds off blood and terror, lowering your
mouth to the willing veins of your victims, gently releasing their empty
shells into oblivion with a slow smile, stained wine-red with death.
Your eyes shine with black amusement, mocking and cruel, and the vicious
twist of your mouth sends a shudder through my veins.
You move suddenly, as quickly and as silently as a panther. Your face is
now mere inches from mine, and you look directly into my eyes, moving aside
the night-black curtain of your lashes.
I can see the uncharted green depths of your eyes in their entirety, layer
upon layer of deception and death, each more blood-stained than the last.
What I see there makes me want to strike you, to call down upon your head
all of the vengeance for all of your sins.
But I can see other sins in those verdant depths—the sins of others, of
crimes committed against you, not by you, branded into your psyche.
I can't see what they are exactly—you control yourself far to well for
that—but I know they're there all the same, hidden deep within the
fathomless echoes of your soul, like live coals concealed in the seemingly
dead ashes of a fire—the lurking sparks of flame that destroy fires as
green as your eyes.
Those hidden fires have burned you to the bone many times, but only one of
those deadly embers has made its mark visible on the almost flawless
structure of your body.
It shows in your movements, which, though far from awkward, are not as
smooth as they once were. The emptiness where your arm once was burns you
with each slight imperfection of motion; sinews, bone, muscle and blood
replaced by nothingness—or worse, by unfeeling metal and plastic which is
never—can never—be a part of you.
When I grieve for you—which is often—it is this loss for which I mourn
the most, because it leaves you vulnerable—and you are not a creature of
vulnerabilities.
You destroyed that part of yourself long ago.
A car passes us, its headlights recalling me to myself, to the actuality of
now.
The heat radiating from your body—so close to mine that I can smell you,
the faint scent of masculinity and aftershave sending tingles of electricity
along my every nerve—is almost unbearable, as is the electricity in the
air between us, time frozen, inches apart, like the threat of a kiss.
Unbidden, my lips close the distance to yours, brushing softly against your
firm mouth. Your response is swift and decisive, your hand cupping the back
of my neck, pulling me closer, crushing out mouths together, slipping your
tongue between my lips with a violent passion that sears my soul.
I respond in kind, tasting you, learning your mouth with mine, our tongues
tangling in a burning fight for dominance.
Not even your kisses are gentle.
If they were, I don't think I could bear it.
Your mouth tastes of cigarettes and of the long, slow burn of liquor, with a
subtle undertaste that reminds me of flames, scorching my senses, and
leaving me dazed, hungry for more.
You pull away first, and I am left shaking and dizzy, lips still slightly
parted, unable to breathe, let alone think.
Your face is mask-like, the cruel smile vanished, leaving only your
features, shell-like and carefully empty of both emotion and expression.
Your eyes are motionless green pools, frozen over, all traces of heat
vanished from them, all traces of hidden layers gone, only the jade-chill of
ice remaining beneath your lashes.
You reach inside your leather jacket and pull out a package which you then
drop at my feet. It lands with a muffled thud, and I bend to pick it up.
When I straighten, you are gone, having blended in, becoming just another
shadow in the ever-deepening night to which you will always belong, silent,
invisible, and deadly.
Following your example, I, too, turn away, walking back towards the well-lit
safety of familiar territory, one hand gripping the package, the other
tracing my lips, burning my fingers on the lingering flames of your mouth.
Fires
by Broken Angel
"To make a final conquest of all me
Love did compose so sweet an enemy
In whom both beauties to my death agree
Joining themselves in final harmony..."
—Andrew Marvell
The dull greyness of twilight brings your face into sharp relief, the
elegant shape of your features standing out from the pale skin of your flesh
like the shadows that play over the gleaming bareness of a skull, terrifying
in their deadly beauty.
