Far below us, I can see the barrel cactuses on the side of the plateau,
and he drags me back wordlessly by the neck away from the edge, an
unvoiced act of love. Midnight warms us, on the days where the only
difference between night and day is whether we are hiding from the sun
or from the moon, and we breathe in the heat regardless. Strange, to see
all the cars millipeding below, to be in a place once more where the stars
are choked out of the sky. But it is both a warning and a remembrance,
the last part of remembrance, the pain of knowing.
His hunger will take
me here on the high plain. Or it will not, and we return home. I am sick
to death from knowing. I clutch him, opening my mouth to let that aching
out. Mindless, animal, it is a constant state of orgasm, this piece of
unthinkable joy. We come here to come here. The reasoning infects me,
and one day, I know, there will be no reason, and he will mourn without
knowing the word for mourning, and I will flower without knowing the
word for rot, and this is ‘is,’ how violence saves me, to be unthinking and
perfect. I do not have to tell him how much it hurts to never slow down.
I do not have to let my mind wander to a place of abjection. When he eats,
we eat. When he sleeps, we sleep. When there is nothing else, there is us,
and then there will not be us. I want to see all the red lights of this desert
reflected in his eyes.