At Best: An Inferior Infant.

It was night, only since he needed it so and I let it be. But I could feel difference in the reaction a body has to time. He gave me a feeling, the one of being rushed. And I take what he gives, have here all he gave. Keeping these slight gestures, unrecognizable, as to never betray us. I promised. The anonymity someone like him requires. We never meant anything, you’ll see. We, obviously, weren’t real, really there although we are in ways. At five the light stills behind a dangerous window left wide, kept open; alls quiet but his breathing on me. Reminders of time, convenience, ceasing: the very pulse of romance. He said the distance will be our desire. And had he said this desire will become distant, could it be thought, that I came first, that we are satisfying each other now? Would words have made us different? His breathing, I knew then would be the last trace remembered, the only thing I didn't want continuing. No one forgets whatever seems to say: We have these hours, few till we are forgotten, until we are no more. Hurry will you. And it’s funny really, in a sad, pathetic way, how maybe I seemed, if I judged myself on the outside. Hunched up, fingering the hole; my fluid will be digested just below here, I probably thought. And I went, crawling, wanting to taste him, trying to think of him too. You may deem us hopeless, sad, pathetic. That’s funny, because, really, I was trying.