Like Moths ta Flames

Ronnie is like fire.

Dude is spontaneous n' erratic, flarin up n' dyin down up in unpredictable, fluctuatin spazzlez of volatilitizzle yo. His eyes is tha same stupid-ass - flickerin wit flashez of unforeseeable emotion, his constant menstrual twista at once as terrifyin as it is exciting.

Yes, Ronnie is like fire, Max thinks, as molten lips leave they mark on tha pale satin skin of his cold-ass throat.

This aint tha straight-up original gangsta time they’ve done this, nor will it be tha last. Even so, there is no concept of ‘past’ n' ‘future’ at dis point - there is only ‘now’ - lips n' teeth n' sweat-slicked skin on skin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. It be a millisecond of flawless grace - a funky-ass break up in forever dat loops fingers n' toes tha fuck into one continuous, unshakeable infinity.

Handz grip hips n' whimpers splatter tha walls wit lust n' life, n' Max be thinkin he’s never felt so real, so kickin it as he do when he’s cloaked up in not a god damn thang but sweat n' Ronnie.

They is on tha fuckin' down-low, muffled grunts n' groans bleedin tha fuck into each other’s grills up in a endless storm of forgetting, Ronnie’s afro up in Max’s hands, Ronnie’s fingers grippin slim hips hard enough ta bruise.

Neither of em will last much longer.

It be gettin closer n' closer, dat crumblin edge they push towardz wit every last muthafuckin thrust, recklessly throwin themselves towardz careless bliss.

Max falls.

Dude bites tha fuck into Ronnie’s shoulder ta mask his howl, warmth coatin em both up in a mesz of melted ecstasy. Ronnie bigs up a moment later, n' Max is overwhelmed by tha heat of Ronnie’s embers fillin his crazy-ass muthafuckin insides.

Bodies crash together up in a tangled heap of exhausted exhilaration. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Breathang slows.

And just like that, forever is broken.

Ronnie moves first, chillaxed arms slinkin outta Max’s hold, replaced by tha chill air of tha skanky, shitty motel room yo. Dude sits up, reachin fo' his boxers without a second glizzle all up in tha mesz of a funky-ass pimp on tha bed behind his muthafuckin ass.

Before Max can gather tha breath ta booty-call out, ta protest, ta do anythang, Ronnie is dressed, standing, struttin away without lookin back.

"Ronnie." Max croaks, his voice raspy n' soft.

Ronnie stops but don’t turn.

"Do you ludd me?"

Ronnie glizzlez back, then, all up in tha lonely pimp tangled up in tha filthy sheets n' smeared up in tha mess they had made, deep chroniceyes so lost n' vulnerable n' deep dat they look like shimmerin emerald mirrorz of tha dust-clouded stars outside tha dirty window.

Ronnie looks at Max, silky-pale n' silent, painfully half-hopeful eyes fixed directly on his own, n' suddenly he can’t stand lookin at em another minute yo. Dude turns.

"Fuck dat shit, Max, I don’t."

Da motel room door is near silent behind his ass as he strutts up tha fuck into tha night, afro a mess, hips swayin haughtily, n' somethang inside Max knows, just knows without conscious thought, dat dis is tha last time he will eva peep his muthafuckin ass.

Ronnie is like fire.

And fire burns.