Memory.
1/1
The ticking clock kept time with the rattling ribcage of the young man. His eyes remained wide open in an otherwise silent and darkened room. Starlight etched itself on the curtains, waiting to be let in, but the young man refused its entry. He couldn’t handle shining light on his actions, his words, himself. Not tonight.
He rolled onto his back and kept his eye fixated on his ceiling. If he focused hard enough, he could imagine the white textured roof quite well. A small sigh parted from his lips and echoed through the room, an almost tangible reminder that he was still there.
His fingertips still tingled from the party atmosphere he had been in only an hour ago. A slight buzz still filled his mind from the ecstasy of it all. The fiery demon that fueled his desire, the rapture of touching skin, the shame of an empty side of the bed and conscious. Thoughts sparked in his mind, but none caught alight. He couldn’t piece it together.
He remembered short breathes and a rush of pleasure. He remembered an insatiable craving for flesh and an empty smile that satisfied it. He remembered faded grey eyes and rustling sheets. He remembered frantic heartbeats and two as one. One memory after another flashed through his head, but no string connected them. A kaleidoscope of words caught in his mouth as he licked his cracked lips.
There was heat, but no warmth. There was pleasure, but no joy. There were people, but no lovers. There was lust, but there was definitely no love. There were chemicals, but no intoxication.
He remembered the cold hand that made him lose control. He remembered the wild touch that made him beg for more. He remembered the long hair and just the way it got in his face. He remembered almost every detail of his face, but the identity remained unseen.
Exact moments blurred in his head. The first meeting and coy smile. The walk upstairs, one hand leading another. The detachment of the lips and the loss of clothes. Each whizzing memory, another dot in his Sunday Afternoon. The artist longed to finish his piece, to remember a name!
But, alas, nothing came. His canvas lay unfinished and given up on. He sighed, defeated, and made a small angry growl in the back of his throat. Not knowing who irritated him to no end. He shut his eyes tightly, but then relaxed them.
It had been blind faith in a random stranger. And he was okay with that.
He rolled onto his back and kept his eye fixated on his ceiling. If he focused hard enough, he could imagine the white textured roof quite well. A small sigh parted from his lips and echoed through the room, an almost tangible reminder that he was still there.
His fingertips still tingled from the party atmosphere he had been in only an hour ago. A slight buzz still filled his mind from the ecstasy of it all. The fiery demon that fueled his desire, the rapture of touching skin, the shame of an empty side of the bed and conscious. Thoughts sparked in his mind, but none caught alight. He couldn’t piece it together.
He remembered short breathes and a rush of pleasure. He remembered an insatiable craving for flesh and an empty smile that satisfied it. He remembered faded grey eyes and rustling sheets. He remembered frantic heartbeats and two as one. One memory after another flashed through his head, but no string connected them. A kaleidoscope of words caught in his mouth as he licked his cracked lips.
There was heat, but no warmth. There was pleasure, but no joy. There were people, but no lovers. There was lust, but there was definitely no love. There were chemicals, but no intoxication.
He remembered the cold hand that made him lose control. He remembered the wild touch that made him beg for more. He remembered the long hair and just the way it got in his face. He remembered almost every detail of his face, but the identity remained unseen.
Exact moments blurred in his head. The first meeting and coy smile. The walk upstairs, one hand leading another. The detachment of the lips and the loss of clothes. Each whizzing memory, another dot in his Sunday Afternoon. The artist longed to finish his piece, to remember a name!
But, alas, nothing came. His canvas lay unfinished and given up on. He sighed, defeated, and made a small angry growl in the back of his throat. Not knowing who irritated him to no end. He shut his eyes tightly, but then relaxed them.
It had been blind faith in a random stranger. And he was okay with that.
♠ ♠ ♠
:/