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Liam (1 Viewer)


I can still see exactly how he looks under black light. How his arms are a little longer than he thinks they should be, but they look like the arms of a God being shaped into further perfection. His collar bones that come and go, but sit perfectly aligned with his shoulders when he's relaxed. I love how his back arches with muscle blended perfection, and the mirroring dimples he has on either side of his spine. The soft skin across his stomach that I miss dragging my lips across, using my tongue to guide me to heaven. That's what I use to call his happy trail in my head by the way, the Stairway to Heaven. I still hear how he sounds when I run my fingers across his skin while I admire every single inch of him. I wish I would have done this more.

I can wake up in a cold sweat: in one of those dazes where I don't know what year or what time of day it is. All I know is I'm waking up from a flashback that's already fading from me, and I only immediately calm down when I feel him. I've memorized the pattern of his facial structure, the texture of his skin, then it's way he smells next to me that comes rushing... then that fades. At least I'm calm and I remember one thing before everything else comes flooding back: his name. His scent fills my nostrils again, and even if I know nothing else but his essence, I am safe. He will fade, again, and reality will hit me.

I can stare at his eyes for hours, mesmerized at how they can morph from these sparkling ponds of emerald teeming with life, to the matte landscape of gray and amber the Sahara gives at Dusk. I'm absorbed by how the colors twist and blend, like a life form all on it's own. From pulsating hazel, to mint green, to ashy blue. I want to blow away the powder that is layered up top, that look that he always want to die, that he's already lived this life a thousand times, too.

I can feel his vibrations from miles away, In my skull, spine, toes, I feel his energy reverberate. Even though he acts like he wants me gone, his spirits scream softly to stay. It's like the colors to the threads of life I see that I can't explain, or the rush of euphoria whenever the thoughts of him begin to initiate. It complicates my life, though I experimented with dip dye. For my strings were bland, and plain, and, white. I could always wash the colors away. But he stained. So, he stays. Vibrancy in every strain that you slightly grazed. Never before have I had to separate and make a place for a new thread; this is sacred work that I hold close and wish to incorporate into my web.

I can still remember just the way he tasted. I should be incriminated, but then these thoughts would go to waste and that would be unfortunate. To try and face these obsessions will take amazing strength and self discipline that I have yet to attain. Going insane because I've never felt this before though I'm no foreigner to pain; trying to maintain balance in a world that's turned so fast I've had to recalibrate. He's the momentum in my veins, The only thing that could strike me still, the only motivation when I'm in pain. Alleviation to the tension when I'm tense in all I am. He's the distance from the dreams, the sweet sound of sanity.

Yet, I move on every day, acting like there isn't this pain engulfing my being and brain.


Staff member
Global Moderator

I have read it a number of times, and yet I want to read it again. Each time I read it, I see something new. After the second paragraph, I feel like I understand, but then it takes a turn because it's in the present now. Or is this still just a memory?

A couple of small typos:

...then it's the way he smells next...

...that he always wants to die...

...were bland, and plain, and, white. (maybe that's a style thing)

I like how you challenge yourself as a writer. I'm intrigued by the piece. Is it part of a longer story?