Staring at him sheepishly I wondered why I had to have it this way, why I always had to ruin it. He lay there under me, as if sleeping, perfect in his stillness. His slightly brown, mainly blonde hair delicately curled about his forehead and around the base of his neck, brushing against his golden, yet fair skin lightly. As I exhaled I watched the springs of hair quiver in the breeze, then fall back to still as I inhaled again. His eyes were bright blue, but couldn’t be seen for the eyelids that covered them, dressed with long eyelashes that any female would be jealous of.

I was over the entire length of his body. My feet rested on the bed between his shins and I propped my upper half on my elbows as to not push down on his chest. My mouth stayed a bitter six inches away from his, but my hair couldn’t resist but to touch his soft, careless face. I sighed at his elegance, then got up to pour the rest of his tea down the toilet, so as not to make a mistake and drink it myself.

I returned and took a seat across from the bed, where he still lay exactly the same as how I had left him, though the gorgeous, warm glow of his complexion was beginning to fade. I took up my art pad and pencil, and flicked through my previous drawings… all equally beautiful men. Reaching a plain white page I pulled the pencil round on it, marking out the soft, resting features of the boy that lay before me. Marking the still rose of his cheeks as graphite on the page, marking down the small bead of cold saliva that rested on his lower lip. I finished my masterpiece and stared down at its magnificence; comparing it to the purpling, pale body of the boy I had loved. I felt tears forming, but shook them off, I knew it had to end this way. It always ended this way. In the end it avoids hurt. To end it while the relationship is still fresh, warm and loving, before the arguments and the bitterness arrive, and to know for certain that they’d never love another woman. It was perfect. Almost as perfect as their face as they lay there, honest, revealed and completely care free, I had to remember that, so I’d draw it.

Months would pass, and he would return to the ground, and in my own sadistic way I was over it. I stood at a bar one night and sipped at a corona, staring across at a boy at the other side of the bar. He was tall and firm. His shirt pulled smooth over his chiselled body. His hair rested on his shoulders, knotted together in thick, deep brown dread locks. His eyes looked kind, from what I could see, and his cheeks dimpled lightly as he smiled at a friend. That boy would be mine.