Sometimes the most beautiful things are the ones you cannot have.


I won't dare imagine you without your shirt on.

It's not a new temptation of mine, and I've seen that kind of thing before; but I won't allow myself to do it. I have no chastity, so it needs no defending or saving— in fact, let us efface that notion entirely. Besides, it's well-known that no thing telluric can be chaste; only that which is extra-terrestrial can have that luxury at their disposal, to use for manipulation as in a powerful grapeshot of a pleasing veneer with which to demolish people and turn them into worshipers— nevermind what gods they had in the first place— but back to the point.

We have a strange relationship, you and I, on that is oddly perpendicular. Its effects on the psyche are maddening; the blemish of it is unremovable, like a ring left by a wet mug on a wooden table. I cover it well, matching antimacassar for armor— but it must still bear it; and it is a cross left int my stomach, something that rubs at my spine through the walls of my belly and miscarries a twin, which develops headless in my straining ribcage. I am a self-made Lazarus and you are the promise left by nightshade: we are in constant and assiduous variance. There are no intermissions and we never touch. You must always be pure, dressed in your cassock and nothing below the adam's apple exposed. And I won't dare imagine it.

But there you do stand now, by the window, illuminated by an impossible pristine. Your cassock is undone to the waist, hanging loosely there; and you are naked otherwise. I see white silhouettes and slopes, and the curls of your hair, and the galaxy-intensity of your eyes, overlooking plains of nothingness that move languidly, like soil made of clouds.

I leave the room, though. You never know that I was there.