Disclaimers:  Not mine, not mine, not mine.  Not a one of them, damn it.  No harm intended, no currency reaped in benefit.  Don't sue, all right?
Rated:  R for a single four-letter word?

Forces

 

He makes it too easy.

Too easy to just walk over one night and separate head from body, to leave him in two parts with all that glorious energy sparking and burning through me, all that knowledge and sheer burning desire for life humming through me like some generator that's been added to my personal energy supply.  Too easy to feel him pour through me, into me, becoming part of me in a way that will never end, never be separable....

Insidious.  Invidious.  Tempting.  Desirable.

Sweeter than wine, a stronger burn than runner's high, more addictive than morphine, or tobacco, or... anything really.  Better than sex, some days.  Worse than torture, others.

And, possibly, the one thing that would break me, to suddenly have that confusion inside me, that mind inside my own wondering Why?  Why did you do this?

And every time this sick, twisted, wanting little part of me goes down this line of thought, I remind it that we'd hate to realize that I'll never get to bait him again, never trip myself over that sly humor of his that lingers just under the surface, never get to just watch him move, beautiful and dangerous as any hunting cat.  Watching him move through life, an outmoded set of values wrapped in a charisma strong enough to pull suns from their course, is a joy that makes me wonder how far he's pulled me from my own orbit.

I don't look at that, of course.  That way lies insanity and, probably, his death.  And no matter how much part of me would like to go there, to bathe in his quickening, I won't do it.  The price is too high.

Maybe I should just drag him into bed, ease this burning with another flame, another heat.  I don't think he'd object.  I've seen him watching me, innocent looks that aren't, intent observations over the most innocuous of subjects.  But... I've always had a sinking sensation that bedding him to get over him would be like dousing a campfire with gasoline:  explosive, burning, painful... scarring.

No.  Not that way, either, I don't think.  And yet... how long can we stay here, caught between both desires?  Torn between them, not willing to kill, not willing to fuck, until all we can do is run?  And that doesn't work either.  Somehow we're drawn to each other, needing each other, starving of a hunger we don't know how to feed.

And so I assuage that ravening beast one more time, dulling it down the same way I always have.

"Hey, Mac, pass me another beer."

 

 

~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~

Comments, complaints, and/or anti-grav devices gratefully accepted by Rhi

 

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