unexpected intrusions of beauty
ONE | Let him touch you. Look up at him from underneath your eyelashes and wonder what his pulse would feel like pressed against yours. Discover that he kisses like he is coaxing secrets from underneath your tongue; marvel at the slow burn of his lips against your neck, his fingers playing around the edge of your hip. Let yourself touch him. There is a story embedded in the crevices of his body; there is a song caught in your throat whose lyrics are imprinted in the taste of his skin. Lose yourself in the sensation of desire igniting between bodies that are still learning where they end and where they begin. Let yourself feel alive. When you wake up in the morning and feel his pulse pressed against yours, leave. This aliveness will drown you.
TWO | There is a boy whose body is tied to hospital beds and veins woven into the wires of machines that tell him how alive he is. He looks at the monitor sketching the sheet music for his heartbeat and sees the skyline of cities he will never find himself lost in; the mountains and valleys of landscapes whose names are too heavy for his tongue to hold on to. He can feel his lungs drowning and imagines them brimming with saltwater from an ocean whose coldness he has never touched. He does not know what it means to be alive. On nights when he can feel his sickness sticking to his skin, he sometimes thinks he can find it by chasing his heartbeat all the way to the plateau at the end of that bedside skyline.
THREE | There was a time when war was beautiful. Before bombs could suffocate life within split-seconds; before guns could split body and brain with a flash; before the flash of a gas nozzle was enough to drown our consciousness — there was a time when every death was artwork, was metal kissing flesh and flesh kissing crimson; a time when war was an opera about bodies learning to embrace death slowly, like a lover. The bombs have robbed our one-day corpses of their swansongs. The guns have stolen the slow waltz of losing life and replaced it with the elegy of life lost. There is no romance in war anymore. We die in split-seconds and flashes and our brains disintegrate before our bodies can miss the life seeping from their hollows.