Attend

Another midnight

Another crisis

Calling in the banners

For a battle half-lost

Mobilising the chess pieces

Black on white

 

Heart hammering

Sword raised

Tears into tea

A cry for help

Or a gunshot unheard?

I step into the rain

And listen

Your Time Was Now

What’s the worst that can happen? He asks, smugly assured of his privilege. He doesn’t worry about meeting strangers off the Internet, especially if they’re cute little red heads who politely reply to his increasingly persistent messages.

What’s the worst that can happen? It’s the slogan for my favourite commercial soft drink. A university summer spent collecting can after can of it as we hit deadlines and won a variety of useless, amusing, prizes from the codes on the labels.

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Saccharine Bliss

His breaths are heavy, almost ragged with the scent of my skin. My hands are entwined in the long fall of his hair as his rests his forehead on mine, wholly of the moment, his lashes brushing my cheek like the fluttering of my pulse.

My breath answers him, a short pant of air that gusts lightly over his ivory skin, as his hands reach down the length of us firmly and without haste, wandering over me as if to read the Braille of my body.

His hands sink into the smooth pillowy pull of my buttocks with a groan and he pauses to tip his head back and snarl lightly at me, a vision of unhurried lust even as his fingers curl with possession against the soft flesh.

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The Gesture

A reply was owed, and a read count has now been given and your silent audience shall continue the prose in more detail…

Yes. I have keys to your flat.

The key is a gesture. Trust with your carefully created space, naturally. An invitation to throw aside social convention and just run our course, certainly. It is the glass raised in toast to the world, a salute to chaos, a performance all of its own. But its also a physical gesture, a cape swept aside and a grand bow through an opening door, a wry nod to an endless intricate game, an invitation and a promise. It is another home. A home of your making where a still, quiet, space is offered to me without question.

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The Squee Before The Water

The best way to describe it, is a curling up.

A drawing in.

A careful assembly of walls.

Its starts as my mortality creeps in. As my spark begins to fade and the knowledge of the coming days settles on me. I feel myself begin to slide, withdrawing tendrils of affection, becoming quieter, stiller.

It begins as I realise I have, once more, been running full tilt towards the edge of the chasm and the edge is now sprinkling the dust of my movements into the abyss.

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Theatre Realised

It took me by surprise, the play.

I joined because I was nudged. That is the truth of it. I joined because at the end of the day the play didn’t matter to me but you, suddenly and inexplicably did.

I rode the rehearsal process without a care. I winged the audition, having only actually read through my speech a handful of times, instead of memorising it like I normally do. I didn’t bother reading the script before the read-through. I didn’t bother learning lines, just relied on my absorption skills. I forced myself, casually and effortlessly, not to care, to see it as an exercise, a bit of fun, a one off. I didn’t arrive early, I didn’t stay later. I made no real effort to socialise, reverting to old habits of quiet observation and gentle lurking. I did just enough not to fail.

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