I can’t help but think of Baraka



Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Alastair is thin, putting my arms around him is like putting flesh over bones. Until today, I’d forgotten how that felt. When I think of him, I think of what he looks like – how he smiled crookedly at me once while standing naked in front of a mirror, how he moved, quickly and fiercely, his drawn angles matching in some brilliant sketch of a walking man – and I glow for a moment, remembering.

When I met him, I thought we would be together a year. Months piling into months, days a flow of photographs and dance music. We would go to clubs together, we did when we were here and we did when we were in L.A. He would always look better than me, but I liked that. That he cared made me happy. I dance like a goth hippy, all waving hands and jutting curves, but he dances like a spider might, crouched black and thin with side to side movements. I can’t blend in as well as he does.

When he ran up to me today, he looked slightly different, like there had been a re-adjust of the system since I said goodbye at the airport. I imagine I might look a tiny different as well. I’ve lost weight again, and my hair’s turned red and gold as well as plum. It was hard to say goodbye, to decide to take that first step toward the plane.

We never were the same after a certain conversation.

Tomorrow we’re going for tea. He’s going to call in the morning. As always, I’ve not any idea what we’ll talk about, but I don’t think I have to. It will be enough to see him, imprint his cellular structure again in my mind.

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