They say a love like ours is a tragedy in the making, a bud refusing to blossom, the sound of a wave before it hits shore. You’re not a savior but more of a wound that won’t stop festering, a chasm across which I tie bridges of weeds; tansy, peony, sage and yarrow. I place my tongue on the sharp lining of your hip bone and the clawed shadows in your eyes flutter awake. You’ve never been touched by a man, nor have I ever laid my hands on borrowed skin, but boundaries crack as we move in perfect sync, as if rocked by the arms of the sea. I catch your moans as they leave your lips, clenching them in my hand to taste them later. Bury my face in your hair and think of all the people who bowed to you, how carelessly you took the lives of those who opposed our love.
(I could take yours right now.) The thought occurs to me while I softly stroke you to the rhythm of hitched breathing, words spilling like wine down your chin, making promises of white-hot lashes of pleasure, of ripe fields and soft rains and worlds to conquer. Your eyes lock with mine and the tide shifts in me.
“You are a monster.”
“All gods are monsters.”
Writhing beneath me and covered in cold sweat, you are more divine than ever as you loosen up, shivering as you allow me to pleasure you in your most sensitive spot. And I weep because you’re beautiful, beautiful and vulnerable and fleshly. I couldn’t hurt you to save the world, such a poor martyr I am – faithless and selfish, the only thing I’d die for is you. I whisper my testimony repeatedly as the waves hit, IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou. You come around my finger with genocide in your eyes and heresy on your lips, outcast boy claiming to be something you will never understand. The heavens will surely cry for you, but the tears shed in the dark after we’ve fallen silent are my own.