The combined edge of two blades is pulled again from your neck, further forever ruining your voice box and all of its surrounding company. His knees pressing against your middle shake with deranged desperation and strength, using all of his weight and the climax of his eleventh hour. Although warm, the liquid bubbling out of the many tears and gashes above your neckline almost immediately turns cold. Ice trails to the back of your neck and into your perfectly faded hairline, down your spine, and blooming into the perfect cream of your dress shirt...

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His hands are on your face, grief and sorrow are an illness that has bloomed in his marrow, vivid in how he simply looks at you.
“We can do this. You’re so strong, my love. We’ll figure this out. It’ll be alright.”
It wasn’t like him to weep. It wasn’t like him to cry. His hands shake as his face buckles and collapses into mourning. Love for you pours from his soul and is salt dribbled into the wound that has already begun to fester with the promise of no tomorrow.
“I love you,” he breaks, a jaded, gray man who has often rebuked the good when given to him, begins to weep.
“I love you,” you return, numb with nothing else other than a need to hold your beloved.
You’ve kissed his forehead, maybe for the last time, holding him against your collarbone as he wails and mourns for a dead man walking...

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“This isn’t against you. This isn’t about you. I don’t care about you, frankly. I care about the boys and I’m not going to make them live through the disappointment of abandonment.”
Curls whip around and offense pinches his face into an angry sneer. “You know nothing of abandonment. Do not pretend to suddenly empathize with the lonely.”
“And why am I not ‘allowed’ to? Who pushed me away?” You lean in. He’s less than a foot from your face.
“You did!!! You didn’t want what I had to offer!!”
“So you run away? Pathetic. You left before I could recover—breathe—and you were gone when I was ready.” When I needed you most.
“I don’t want to argue about this,” he warns.
“Scrambling for the moral high ground?”
“I’ve never claimed to be more moral.”
“Was there any shame when you left?”
“Almost unbearably.”
“So you need help staying.”
“That’s not the issue.”
You’re well in his personal space. With a couple of well placed worming of fingers, his necktie is undone before he can even register you’re touching his things.
A loose knot of your own.
It slides and tightens close to his neck, forcing an angle and a silent hate in his eye as he doesn’t resist. He knows he’s wrong. He knows he needs to face his own sins. You’re so kind, merciful. Gentle intimidation is such an undeserving grace a coward like him shouldn’t get...

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The slope of the neck is like a single stroke from the perfect brush of a make-believe creator. Blessings are hidden by the smoke gray-dyed wool of a carefully ironed uniform, revealing only curious hints of a thin, boyish waist and pair of hips to make sure they’re kept company. Angles are hidden, but the toy arms and shoulders sweep up a striking silhouette of androgynous elegance.
The cap hid a chopped head of hair, loose curls hugging gently to the scalp. Pigment of a glacier, each strand of hair can’t be more than a few centimeters, giving enough to frame and flatter the perfect balance her forehead brings to her features. Eyes uncaring yet sharp, brow paled but thick and mildly perturbed even in resting position, nose and lips small but not thinned. Everything is complete and gives the impression of grave confidence and prestige, as if her lineage was chosen for her to mature into her balanced mien...

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Yet, I cannot be bothered to ponder such existentialism at times like these, held in the arms of one whose eyes rest upon me, undivided, just for this lull. I know it will not last, so I will lean into his touch, let him feel and check the condition of my new vessel to be sure it’s up to a proper, working standard.
It should be odd that I feel no discomfort at the knowledge nothing of myself is a secret. He has seen the most intimate, utterly gross and human parts of me, yet it is casual, it is normal, it is expected. I am unable to deduce if this is a result of professionalism or apathy.
Is it odd that I do not find our arrangement odd? He is such a reserved man, the persona the public worships few in words and fewer still in sightings, yet his kindness is tender, his tongue sharp, his hands warm. Much of his form is often draped in cloaks that trick the average eye into an impression of planned elegance, of class, of scholarly wisdom and a physical expression of mental status, yet I know those are simply comfortable loungewear that just happens to be beautiful...

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