Пара в заброшенном доме: любовь как насилие и жизнь в катакомбах

You sleep in your jeans and I don’t mind. The denim is soft and frayed into yellowing threads. There are little rocks and screws in your pockets. When you press into me they leave their mark too. When I pull my head off the pillow of your chest, to look at the portrait of your face, all I see is a bullseye. As if I were cupid’s arrow itself. You are everything. I adore you like this, animal. I love you like this, darling. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t. I’ll press into you and rise from you every morning like this. I’ll walk around with imprints on my stomach and legs of the rocks and screws you carry. I see the door of home on your chest where a tattooed flower blooms. Will you put me to sleep again? You ask this when it’s grey and early and our warmth is slipping into the day. I like to put you to sleep because it means we can make out instead of just kiss. I can lather in spit and space and frays. My red hair grows coarser and your grey blonde strands fly. We make it last till I’m on top of you and then you become wide awake and alive again. We trade our bodies back and forth till you’re swimming in sleep with the shadow of a grin across your face. He’s dreaming. I can touch him softly when he sleeps. I can watch his body heave and rest. We need this. We have a perfect freedom. I trace my fingers up and down his back and draw out the child inside him. His body is frozen in a sleep. My fingers are little white combs lulling his blood to bed. I watch over him like this. I get so much pleasure in watching him rest. I watch his angel eyes rest under angel eyelids. His face is my name. I notice the pronouncing lines and fading edges of the boy he once was. I read them in a language that’s unknown to any other person. There’s a distinct smell of mildew and ash in the room. They were all once living things here. I’m so thankful the clouds are hanging low and the sun isn’t shining, I want him to sleep deeply. I want him to slowly wake up and ask to return to bed again. I want to cool his blood and slow him down. Behind his eyes is red. Sun, hair, gold, touch and all the life we possess and have ahead of us. This is where true love finds itself. Above blue jeans, hanging in a still and dusty room on a dead end street while my sweetheart sleeps. The two of us are locked in a catacomb. Your skin could crawl watching us. Seeing two people so intertwined it’s almost disgusting to see bodies touching fully. You’d think it was offensive or sickening. It’s vulgar to be so intimate. Nothing can excuse this type of behavior. These stupid animals with nothing better to do than lie in their own filth breathing in carbon monoxide because their faces are so close together they’re going to suffocate themselves to death. This love looks a lot like violence.