Date: Sat, 20 Oct 2001 17:24:41 -0400
From: dirge <dirge@operamail.com>
Subject: Andrew Is Beautiful (M/b)

Andrew Is Beautiful
By dirge (dirge@operamail.com)


This small Montana town doesn't seem like a romantic city. I leaned against the
windowsill swirling the drink in my hand. The room was small. I paid little
enough for it, but still it was uncomfortable to have more than two people
scrunched into the micro-apartment. I joked with my sister and her husband about
it being the perfect place to be a crack head. A bed is the first thing you see
when you enter, and behind that, without even a door is the bathroom. I strung
love beads over the port in a lame attempt to create a feeling of privacy; they
only added to the trashy look of the Aquarian couch that sat on a cheap Kmart
throw rug. The couch faces the window that provides an excellent view of Main
Street once you have looked through the steel wire mesh of a fire escape. The
fire escape is no longer in service, and just seems to have the soul purpose of
blocking my line of site; as one can see from the street the entire structure
has been removed, save for the small portion in front of my window.

Main Street runs east and west, but you can't look east because there is neon
sign that says 'Theater'. This doesn't bother me, because during the day the
light has little effect, and at night it fills my cubbyhole home with melancholy
blue and red. The paint on the wall is chipping. I peal some off and let it
drift to the floor, no doubt led paint, wouldn't be so bad, but it's a lime
green, and the color is destroying me. I live with the paint during the day; at
night my walls are blue then red, blue then red, blue then red, over and over
for eternity. I think about going down and asking the theater to change one
color to green, not lime green, a deep emerald green, for now its blue and red.

It is summer tonight, as I sip my drink, Jack and Coke. Hot, the window is up. I
had a hard time opening it due to the layers and layers of paint. I imagine my
landlord's garage or basement or kitchen full of lime green led paint cans. Also
I imagine "he" is a "her", and she has many cats, they walk about her feet as
she prepares my rent statement. One hundred twenty-five dollars a month, it must
give the old girl satisfaction, bitch. She calls me "The Dude", something she
got from watching "The Big Labowski", too many times. I had a beard when I
inquired about the place, that's why I'm "The Dude," but I've shaved it since,
and cut my hair really short. Not military short, I got it cut chic-short, a
friend of mine call's it queer-short. It's clean and chopped, dusty blond, but
after the first few weeks of summer its starting to lighten.
I'm still sweating after a cool shower, thank God the plumbing functions, and
it's not a low-flow showerhead. I couldn't live with a low-flow, not at one
twenty-five a month. My bathroom makes me feel sexy, it is small and porcelain,
but the tub is cast iron. It must weigh a ton. When I move I should get help and
haul it down to the hawk shop. That would teach the old sow.

In the summer, Montana is hot, you don't really think about it as being a hot
place. I dare you to go without air conditioning. My little town in particular
is at an elevation of about 4500 feet, depends on whom you ask, so the air is
thin and dry. Not dry as in, not humid, this place is dry as in, use lotion or
your skin will crack. Dry heats are good, they are sensual, this time it's
abnormally hot so it is abnormally sexy, which makes everyone abnormally horny.
I would have to say not all, though, certainly wherever I am. The downtown part
for sure, where I live, on Main Street, it's as ghetto inner city as you're like
to find, and as liberal wonton can exist in an ultra conservative town.

My neighbor is a fat man who pays for prostitutes. The only other person on my
floor he lives as you come up the stairs and past the first hallway on your
right, which is mine. Down toward the back, hang a left and it's the lime green
door at the end. He had one of those spy holes installed. I don't have one. On
speaking in passing, which is the only time I will to him, he told me to "get
one, it was safer". I haven't seen him much since he offered me his whore when
he was done. He came huffing down my hall, I was reading a book, and he starts
pounding on my door. "Hey, hey, you, hey you." I just sit there reading hoping
he'll go away. How can he know I'm home?

"What?" I say from my couch. I'm not going to get up for the fuck.

"My girl..." he really needs to do some jogging because he's huffing loudly.

"Yeah." I just want him to leave.

"She's passed out, she's on my bed."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, do you want a go at her? She's out cold she'll never know." I'm quiet for
a long time listening to the cow frothing at my door, I try to put myself in his
shoes and comprehend why on earth he'd want me to fuck his slut.

"No!" I shout. A sharp no. He's still huffing, backs up. I see his shadow
disappear from under the door. I hear him walking back to his hall. He stops at
the end of mine. "Go." I whisper. He goes. He is really a weirdo, from one
weirdo to the next. He's suspicious of me. I don't know what he does, but he's
gone by six in the morning and back by two in the afternoon.

The sun is setting, almost gone, I can still see the remnants on the taller
buildings and the cell phone tower. Main Street is like a canyon, it gets dark
here early, and the lights blink on like souls blinking into existence. The
traffic below seems to make a little less noise, and people's voices carry a
little farther, or maybe I care a little more.

This is really a yuppie town under the cowboy-hooded ambiance like Hollywood is
really a slut town under the yuppie sheen. Western boutiques make me want to
puke on their doorsteps. I wish I had the vomit to spare. It's a college town,
professor-ville, doused with silicon valley suburban sprawl that seeps into your
pours and you wonder why you put up with the shallow definition of
existentialism, or maybe your apathy means you've accepted you're on role in the
conundrum and it's just to damn hard to care. The suburb of America. The Big Sky
state billionaires and impoverished looking ski bums with a cause. I like to
joke that their parents drive the extra fifty miles to dump their causeless baby
boomer spawn on the local ski slopes. But it's the warm season now, and brand
name mountain gear is replaced with stained cotton neutrality, the fucking
fabric of our lives, and if they wanted a cause they'd take a history class and
remember where the cotton comes from. I make it a point not to ski, and am glad
with this so far hot summer.

I can't hate the CEO sacks of shit too much. They brought me my little god.  The
entire sequence of meeting him was not so implausible considering the climate of
this bored-rich bordello's pleasurable exotic intoxication of the Micro Brewery
scene. I suppose its as close as one can get to the club life of New York, but
if you haven't experienced the Pacific Northwest money slut fest of July, the
atmosphere is somewhat different in the since that there seems to be a more
liquid cash flow-and overdosing under a crystalline sky of stars is more
appealing without behemoth cement monsters to judge you. It's a closer path to
God.

There he was. I am a waiter at one of these places when they call me and think
I'm going to work. He was sitting in the back room playing with the silverware.
I saw his parents, his father was quite drunk and in the middle of a story about
I forget what the fuck... but he reminded me of others I knew. Earlier I watched
his mother retire to the catwalk with a fine specimen clutched lovingly,
motherly in a firm white fist. They often like to blow fine summer powder on the
conveniently supplied marble tabletops.

In the July lemming rush of non-creativity the Micro Breweries are full. Every
table buzzes with its own rhythm of conversation. We had to go through a lesson
about how "not to" run into customers and spill our drinks or theirs. This part
of the west is the collective idea of flaunted wealth, expensive meals, good
wine (but wasted) and irreverent thoughts. This place makes me sick, and swelled
to over filling I couldn't imagine why someone would blow coke inside when they
had the whole of uncivilized Montana to deal with.

He sat on a tall stool at the corner booth playing with his curly hair that
seemed to lock to the sides of his soft face. I don't think it annoyed him, but
suited him more. I thought to myself that it was like silk on silk and I wanted
to feel the texture of both. He looked like his father probably would have
looked as a boy, but wasn't as loud, more subdued.

Have you ever had moments when the world goes silent? The mystics would say I
was jolted from my reality into a super sensitive state. I think I was in his
reality. Did he pull me in, or did I enter willingly? I walked up to him,
previous order forgotten. It was a table of four college girls; they could wait,
or get another waiter, probably the latter. I went through my usual greeting in
my singsong voice that shouted fag all over town. Though it wasn't emasculate,
as I was told once, but it occupied the same spectrum of projection personality
and a bit of the more exotic sexual tastes. The same voice that got my ass
kicked in ninety-six, he, this boy, seemed to love. Or was it that he was loved
having someone to talk to, who wasn't drinking. He didn't seem shocked that I
sat down at his table, or that I just stared into his eyes.

"Hi."

"Hi." He replied, maybe wondering.

"I saw your parents." He looked away, dimmed, though his angel glow wasn't
phased for long. It was an unnatural shift that conveyed many things, one of
which he was used to his parents and their activities. I just sat there with
him. He didn't talk or seem to care at first.

"I love the way you look."

"What."

"I love the way you look, you're hot!" I repeated. He smiled.

"What's your name?"

"Andrew."

"Oh, I knew an Andrew once."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I kissed him." Andrew seemed to think my style of flirting was funny and
he smiled bright teeth at me and gave me a little bit of moist tongue quickly
over his lips.

He drinks cokes and cherries, or that's what I got him; candied cherries in a
tall glass of chilled coke, (my invention) with a shot of vanilla syrup; because
if I could taste him that's what I thought he'd taste like. I told him so, in
his hear and he giggled and said that sounded weird, and eyed me, the same look
that is a book, unwritten on the secret hearts men of boys, of boys wanting to
be men. This is the flavor of Andrew. He seemed to love that. While I was
loosing tips and getting him more cokes and cherries, He was chatting my ear
off. I'm a cynical bastard, but I let that drop for him. I took to brushing that
golden lock off his forehead. He didn't mind and kept telling me how much better
it was in the Grand Tetons. I saw the coke dribble down his chin, and before he
could lift a hand I softly brushed it off with my thumb. But there I left it,
holding a delicate face. His eyes were huge and brown, golden hair and brown
eyes. Not dark brown, but light brown, like the fuzz of a fawn in spring. I
touched his lip then took my hand away. I stared at it in my lap, not wanting to
look him in the eye again. He's the one who squeezed my bicep...

"Are you gay?" he asked. I wasn't shocked, but still wasn't prepared for whom I
had been thinking of as my little god to ask that question.

"Umm, sort of." I said. "In a way... I like you though." He smiled and popped a
cherry into his mouth, lips as red as the fruit, and moist from the coke, all I
wanted to do was lean in and have him breath into my mouth. I wonder if boys can
breath life into someone. "Is that ok?" I asked. He spun a three-sixty on the
stool and nodded.

"It's fine. I don't care." I grabbed his hand and held it under the table...
Bold move, but one must dare, the game of love is a daring game... each must
take his tragic turn... And we continued talking about nothing really, this and
that... In the summer of Montana when your parents are cocaine-addicted
millionaires nothing is ever very important.

I caress his knee through his khaki pants. He opens his legs, but I don't do much
else, not right away. I asked him how old he is. He says an age, but I know he
is about two years younger than that... Like he must be older for me to
notice... I moved my hand higher up his thigh... Nothing is further from the
truth; time my enemy, the Lex Luthar of my existence... He jumps off his stool
in a hurry. I think he's scared, but he just moves his seat closer to mine, and
he's back up. My hand, which has returned to be politely cupped on the table, he
grabs and holds, then pulls back down. Back under, back into our little world.
I'm all over him, down there.

I whisper in his ear "My not more than twelve god." He licks his lips and the
seduction is on. Who is seducing whom, I wonder; this boy me, or I him or we
each other? Does it matter? I've become bold enough to find his crotch. He's
getting jumpy... looking about... Moving so the fabric is loose and my fingers
can feel... The application of my hand causes his head and shoulders to tense. I
think that every part of his body is a conduit of pleasure. His delicate hands
come up and burry in his face, not comfortable, he folds his arms and pillows
into the crotch of his elbow with his eyes pressed to his skin tightly. If I
stop he looks up at me and perts his lips and brow at the same time, upset that
the pleasure he is owed has ceased, because he is an imp, a sprite, it is his
due. The apex, boy-god not more than twelve is ready. I have his little shaft
shoved down the leg of his pants... Must be warm against his thigh... Smooth...
I palm it harder, roll it, it pops a little... very gently against the very
hard... And push. He jerks, it jerks, I jerk. In that particular time and place
the world jerks before it is still. He has cum and I have violated him. But I
don't care. (What if we were watched?) I never cared. From my own complex
childhood, like his, I was set free, and cared only for the lust and the
immediate. "Andrew," I say to him, and I impart poetry, because boy gods need
poetry, it justifies them, not to themselves but to their desires... A line of
that poetry is my address... In the afterworld, I'm back on my job, and my boss
is too busy getting high, but the head waitress knows, she always knew, another
story. He leaves in a cab with his parents. We watch, my green eyes to his
brown, we know. I start to clear the tables.

That was last Saturday, and as the crow flies it's Friday. I watch for him among
the high school studs that rut for pussy. An entertaining bunch, amidst their
gathering are the hangers-on who are variably more beautiful and thoughts seemed
to be filled, dangerously with nights of cock. I pity them in that world, of
unattainables where sexless is poured on like acid to eat away the sanity...
Thoughts wonder... They cannot all be saved, I am not an angel of mercy to swoop
down and fill a lost boy... Andrew... There he is. He walks through them like
Moses parting the red sea, like a dove through a murder of crows. He looks up, I
wave, he doesn't and enters my building from the lower level.

The stairwell leading up to the main hallway that connects to my fat neighbor's
hall is narrow and dark. I imagine him timidly stepping on the dry rot enforced
by linoleum. It cracks. I wonder if he is scared. I would be, going to meet a
man who masturbated me in public the week before. Hell, he's just a kid, but
he's coming, his soft hand gingerly touches the wood rail. Where is he going, is
it a return for something that was lost, or something that is needed? Is this
stairway the one to heaven or the one to hell? Does he feel small when he
reaches the top and knows to make the first right? Can he feel the fat man down
there, breathing and listening to something new in his building? The fat man
represents something... Listen carefully for it... What is it? The
personification of the spectral world... Maybe... What do fat men who buy
hookers represent? The door is before him. It's warmer now; warm air rises, but
another kind of warm. He reaches out... I am on the inside... But on the outside
a fly on the wall sees the fine downy hairs on the back of his arm, the flush of
muscle... On the back of his neck... He touches the door, and I feel it like my
apartment is an extension of my skin. Quickly thoughts of Indian burial grounds
flash through my head... He doesn't knock. The brass doorknob is cool, cooling
everything. In the last instant, in that moment of reconciliation, does he
pause, think about his absent father blowing crack in the bathroom or his
mother's martini and Cheerios?

He slips in, shuts the door and locks it. I sip my drink. The teenagers down
below are pushing and shoving, the girls watch. He regards me... Sees me...
Correct verbs are hard to find when describing the actions of boys He Stares...
He feels the change, in my world, in his world. He recognizes a young man,
shaved, the same butch cut hair, military-crew, but longer, storm green eyes,
full lips, strong jaw, soft face, it still has boyish curves. He sees me at my
full six feet two inches. Broad chest under polyester shirt, the kind that wraps
every abdominal and curve of the shoulder. The gray shirt I picked out because
it sculpts my back and droops just enough to ride the flare of my ass. He looks
at my arms again, and then my stomach, and then my face. He remembers he is
small...

"You're beautiful." I say as he walks to the window and peers out. So close to
me, I want to touch him, hug him, and take away the pain and confusion, because
I've known pain and confusion. I am an old friend with these two. They share a
room in my pocket, I put them in my dresser drawer. I sleep with them under my
pillow; they make me breakfast in the morning. I was this child ten years ago.
"Andrew, listen nothing has to happen..." my voice trails off, those eyes of
his, animal eyes, eyes of lust, eyes of knowing, of not knowing, of wanting to
know, of wanting to understand. In the fading light of day I see little freckles
on his smooth nose, his teddy bear nose. I look at his red lips, cherry Popsicle
red, his small chin and smooth face. How tall is he? Five three? Five four? The
golden hair of Gabriel the Archangel, of Ganymede, of pure boy dandelion-love,
sun kissed blond. Dare I touch it? He wears a tee shirt, thin, old, used, played
in. He shows his equally defined body, but in a boyish way, not a man's. He
likes khaki pants and sandals over naked feet. I dressed to charm him; he didn't
even need to dress for me. He is the charmer, the manipulator of thoughts, the
boy-shaman. His pure existence is seduction enough. God! I think I'm drunk. This
lust of male child has made me drunk, my mind spins, and everything leaves a
trail like lights on a roller coaster at night.

His hand touches my abdomen. I don't feel it until I feel the heat. It is an
iron of molten led, and travels at the speed of light to my crotch. I've never
been so hard. But there's no thinking about it. Andrew embraces me, not a hug,
it's a lusting clutch; he writhes against me, his head coming just to the bottom
of my chest. My hands are wild, how long have I been kneading his back, his rib
cage (fingers playing over every tendon, every muscle, every joint of bone). I
find myself touching boy, and boy touches me. He shoves me towards the bed,
wants to push me down. "No." I choke. I'm on my knees. On the way down my mouth
and tongue make to eat him. I kiss his hair, I swallow some, his ear, salty skin
and soft, his neck, I suck, work my mouth, wanting to know, wanting my lips to
remember, and suck. His cheeks, his eyes, his nose, that freckled nose. His
chin, his tongue is out, unpracticed, but it is pure. Saliva pours between us,
from him into me, the other way, back again and I drink it. God I drink it, like
blond boy vanilla juice, nothing has seemed so natural. His t-shirt I rip. Down
his front, he cries it hurts so much to love; it hurts so much to rut male to
male, boy to man. Our energy is high; the power of our heat is like fire. The
worn piece of boy-covering fabric is gone, he rips it off, I rip it off. Now my
lips are at his soft tummy. He is firm. From what? Soccer? Football? Swim meets?
I don't care. I suck his stomach like it's his mouth. He moans, I'm all over
him, not one part will be left dry on this fresh thing of a boy. His nipples,
islands in nowhere lands of sloping contour. (You suck a nipple into your mouth;
make love it as if it were a beginning and an end...)

Lick, breathe. I have to tell myself to breathe or I will die with boy on my
breath. He hits me hard; I'm dull with want, intoxicated on his smell, his
flavor. Little fists like small orgasms on my chest. Again he hits me as I lick
him from navel to neck to soft spot under jaw, to mouth. He slaps my side, hard,
and moans. I awake a little. I stop. What? What is pulling me from the fall
toward that place I never want to leave? He takes his chance and jumps on me,
grabs my head and kisses my eyes. He wants to give. He has the helm. I'm
helpless. I'm scared. He rips my polyester shirt, buttons fly. In the slow
motion of day turning into night, of cars honking and teenagers shouting, of
dogs barking, I hear each button fall to the floor, to the bed, on the couch. He
pants in short breaths, and screams when he can't get my shirt off. Animal
instinct rage, fuck the shirt he kisses me the way I kissed him, only harder, if
that is possible for a twelve year old to do. Nipples, tummy, navel, back to the
eyes. I can't see, so much spit in my eyes. My shirt is gone. Through a blur, it
is flying over the couch, out the window, onto the fire escape. His hips slam
into me as he tries to fuck my chest through his pants. Small hands knead my
ass, my crotch. They find the snap. No! My mind screams, I'm loosing myself in
it. I rip my slacks off. My sport boxers are tight against my skin. He kisses my
thighs, grabs my dick through the cotton and sucks, on all fours. I grab his ass
and feel. I touch, small butt cheeks, tight assed sexed hardened scrotum. I
squeeze, from his arching back to his puckered portal that I pray will not be
violated to night, but that is not for me to decide, at this point it is out of
my power. Gently I undo his pants and slip them over his narrow hips. He's naked
underneath. Quivering, his dick is up against his stomach... His mouth heads for
my own sex... I play with his torso, the slim of his waist beneath his ribs,
over his ass... Part his cheeks... Reach under from the back... His balls are
tight... I can't stop to think now. The moment is now. He is reduced to
whimpering his sexed commands through clenched teeth. He wants my briefs off.
They are gone. We are naked, man, boy. In this storm our lips meet again, our
tongues play, our hips slam and rub and gyrate. I have to get him to the bed. We
will die in the sea of the living room floor if we don't find the bed. The bed
represents a grounding to the real, we need it if only to survive the bonding of
our souls in the ethereal of twisting, grasping, in what can only be a beauty-
dance of energies fucking in the weightless solar wind of weeping, because we
have been separated and now we are together.

Where I get the strength I don't know, but I lift him. Driving his pounding
preteen cock into my abdomen. He jerks his torso and his crotch against me and I
hold him tighter. To carry a boy and kiss him... To cup your hand between his
ass cheeks as his tiger legs spread wide... The bed! In the heat of summer, the
dry heat of the Northwest, the heat of hate for fags, dykes, queers, I cross the
great divide and, finally, am defined no mare the fag. I have boy in my bed,
pure and craving. If God himself were to grace me with his holy and shining
presence I'd shove him in a thimble and swallow him for the touch of this
creature.

Blankets, sheets, the pillow is gone. Fuck the pillow. I'm on top now, the war
rages. For a moment I'm on top... As I exhale he inhales. He wraps is frogish
legs around me and forces our groins to touch. Changing metaphors, boy's legs
can be like tigers and like frogish-soft cream... They can become bird's wings
in an instant! Grinding... My own cock sliding between buttocks, against pubic
bone, hipbone, bellybutton. I have to taste him, not with just my mouth, my
hands too, and my thighs and my head, and my whole body at once. At this second,
flesh melts into flesh and the organism looses all reasoning, but for the now.
The battle recedes lower, to the essence of man and boy, where woman cannot
fathom! My mouth finds his groin, his cock, small testicles, ivory, tight, and I
suck. He rips free and shouts at me. I don't understand, but he now has his head
between my legs and I his, and he tastes and kisses and swallows. We rape the
heat of its passion for bleeding lust from the city. No this is the anti-matter,
the event horizon, the Einstein of love and need and want and pity and hope and
sorrow and fear and quazi-jest of fate. We suck no more, my fingers leave his
ass, we just lay there, in my bed, on the little planet called Earth, feeling
the world spin, time passes, then stops, and the universe expands as we drift
towards the center of mass. This is the eye of the storm, the calm after the
rage, but before the eclipse.

"What's happening?" he asks.

"I don't know." I whisper. All is still. Here I think years can pass in seconds,
vice versa the same.

"Hold me." He pleads. "I'm a little scared." And then space hums back into its
synchronicity of harmonics and we, the lovers, clutch and kiss, and touch. I
hold him as he wraps me again, with his lithe legs. I pres his small back
against the lime green led painted walls. I'm on my knees supporting him; his
arms around my neck, little boy kisses landing everywhere like raindrops of
ecstasy. My hands ravage is small rear, parting cheeks, filling him, driving him
against me, sliding on a sheen of sweat. Suddenly he is there, he cries with
mouth wide-open and head tossed back. It's happening he whispered to the
heavens, or did he, or did I, or did the voyeur gods of antiquity? As orgasm
shakes him, as it shakes me. His little dick rocks and spurts once or twice, he
passes out, and I cum and soak us and I pass out. His dick is shaking after mine
stops. I grab it, his face is wet with tears, his and mine, and effort, his ass
with my cum, my stomach with his small sex. We collapse, and we sleep. Thank God
we sleep.

In the morning, he is here, and so am I. We are naked. And the sun is beginning
to glow into the day. The city is waking once more. The only proof I've seen of
God is this boy. We are wrapped together by the fusion of body fluids and the
dry heat from July night. Andrew is beautiful. His body made for pleasure, his
own pleasure and I am only witness to a small portion of it, if he would have
me. Look at how his small feet are so delicate like porcelain China. Can china
brown tan in the sun to this perfect, flawless, copper skin? So traveling up the
line of his body when foot melds to calve, and calve to knee and knee to barley-
sinewed-becoming-creamy thigh, from there to his exposed ass that I now cup
almost completely in one hand. I can't help but feel and be conscious of my
other on the small of his back, the three words 'small of back', a term created
to define that part of a boy's body. His head is nestled in the crutch of my arm
and chest, that natural pillow of man, this boy has found, was destined to find.
Andrew is beautiful.

I fear morning, not morning in general, I fear this very morning. It bitters the
back of my throat and adds butterflies to my solar plexus. I hate myself, last
night was so wrong; guilt rips through me. Not the coupling of youth and man,
that was poetry in dance and song, no it is the sleep I detest. How much time
did I waste that I could have been conscious of a little god in my arms? And now
as light punishes me, it makes me aware of my humanity and more awe filled of
what I was allowed to experience.

He wakes, like a cat wakes, stretches, kisses me. Little kisses on my chest. Are
they thank you kisses? They are worse; they are goodbye kisses. It should be
sin, I feel us parting; the same force that hurled us together is now pulling
him away. I watch him from the bed; he finds his pants, it's painful to see his
naked beauty covered. His sandals, in the chaos, were tossed across the room. He
smiles at this, and I smile too. His shirt is in tatters. I jump up. No one can
see my boy's bare chest, or his back or that stomach! I am jealous. I retrieve
an old t-shirt of my own and slowly bring it over his head, my hands touching
the last of his flesh as it disappears. He's still for a minute and looks at the
door. Now the door is evil, not the morning! The door is going to take him away
from me. He looks up, one last time I bend and bring my lips to his. He doesn't
kiss me in return; he doesn't have to, I don't deserve it. I'm not good enough.
He turns, looking back often over the short distance to the other side of
reality. He is gone.

The pain of withdrawal is directly proportional to the high of the drug, and my
drug was very potent. I shrunk onto the bed and cried, and inhaled hoping to
find his scent on the mattress. I reached for his shirt and clutched it close to
my body as I began to tremble and hurt. And everything felt dark and the already
growing heat felt cold.

Then End