… guilty of lust and sin?

 In the darkness, I can hear the soft chimes of the clock in the hallway. The coldness outside has crept silently within despite the deep carpeting at my feet and thick curtains at the window. Trapped by the four walls it slithers, like Gollum towards me. In a moment of hesitation I wrap the coldness around my shoulders – welcoming the biting sensation as a distraction. Stripped naked by my vanity the shame in realising that it was a dream warns me against comforting words and comforting actions.

 

In the darkness, I am momentarily distracted by mismanaged expectations, as a shroud of solitude slowly slips over me despite a weekend past of frivolous parties, stolen moments under the moon with my bête noir and confirmation of lifelong friendships. The cycle of a waning moon suggests otherwise, but a need for something corporeal taunts my soul and I am left a beggar beside a wide river bellowing for alms as the barge of merriment floats on by.

 

In the darkness, the silence that pervades my thoughts haunts my need to reach out towards a wounded heart, for he loves my heart for once it was his own. I fear that someday the silence will fill up all the conversations that we never had as we go on pretending that we did and in this fear my heart beats so much faster from the many shadows illuminated by the blazing insecurities that stalk the corridors of rationality when you are not here with me.

 

In the darkness, a black square box wrapped with hand stitched orange ribbon sits on the edge of a desk, mocking me. A reminder of a naïve moment of weakness when in a frenzy I imagined that actions spoke louder than words and I could make everything right what the world had made wrong. Inside is a soul’s contentment, waiting to be uncovered and savoured. Like the many layers that make up the walls which scale the most precious gifts we have.

 

In the darkness, the night is always darkest before the coming dawn. And yet, as the sun god draws his carriage near the horizon flecked with spittle of deep red, burnt oranges, and tangerine yellows the coldness has given way to something else. A restlessness that comes with knowing that somewhere out there someone like you searching for someone like me as you stand across a phantom gate; I cannot break with my Eunuch dreams.

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