My hands, your flesh.

There is a world close to this one. A world of desire, of joy. A world of mending hearts and hot, lusty fucking. This world brims and spills over with our fluids.

My cum. Your cream. Our saliva. Our tears. A trace of blood.

This world is you. You soak my sheets, leaving behind a puddle. It becomes a stain. Meanwhile, I stain you.

My hand-prints are totems. Your new welts and weals and bruises and raw pussy, the hills over the ocean. The scar on your heart a ship breaking the surf. I am a crow, perched, watching the sails.

My cock throbs with: anticipation, a little regret, longing, memory, and dream. It's pulsing time, the beat of that song (that one that came on while we fucked). This world is so close. Is it past or future. My hands, your flesh. And yours, on mine.

Breath

Cities breathe. We lie in the dark. We wait for the dawn, then toil on machines of oil and dust. At dusk, the new day is over. Dusty children play hopscotch in the soot and ash of yet another sunset. Our sun setting, the muted light filters gently through our selfish maze of exhaust and rebar. Stars vanish under the low, yellow hum of sodium. We lie still; waiting for ourselves to be made right by the progress of yet another gadget. The robots will save us, we proclaim. Yet, our rising sun will never break.

Upon a faint and distant dawn, the solemn bells of our forefathers, peel. It awakens some to another day washed in the incense of putrescence. Others lie in bed waiting for life to consume, them, us. We still light our ways with metal and ash. Their acids digest and seep and bother no one in our immediate future; until, skin melts. Our brown wastes stretching autumn leaves into summer. Out of sight out of mind. We can't know, refuse to think, what our ancestors would think of our machines of gloom.

One day our children will condemn us to our fate. Our scales always balanced in our sight. Yet, distance proves our eyes askew.

“But,” we say in unison, “we recycled.”

How fucking noble?