"I want to be with you, if only for the sake of being."


You are thin when I see you again, so sheer that I can barely believe it's you, even when your deft fingers are skimming along the hem of my sweater like they always do. I can tell the summer has not done any good to you, and the only thing it has made you is more emaciated and weary-eyed. I don't ask what you did over our separation, out of fear that it would make you uncomfortable and tense, but the new scars (fourteen, I count) already give me an idea.

You whisper that you love how the sunlight changes me, how it makes my skin glow and become golden, how it lights up my eyes with warmth from the inside out. Your delicate murmurs, I always believed, could completely fill up every silence we've ever had.

And even though the smoke from our cigarettes obscures my eyesight, I still notice your bones as you lift your shirt over your head with the same poise and cautiousness you always possessed. It startles me when you wince, as my hands accidentally brush over a series of new gashes that are thin and long like claw marks. I kiss them in sincere apology, and I can feel you shudder underneath me, writhing with your eyes narrowed like a content cat. When I come, you lick it off my stomach adoringly and it makes me just a little anxious, wondering if you are trying to apologize for something unknown in your own way, also.

'I had no clue what I was getting myself into,' you explain. I don't know what you're talking about, and I feel a premonition that I may never fully understand, no matter what I try. The only thing I can do is close my eyes, imagine that you are the same Moony and not the waiflike version that I see now, and grasp your bony wrist, since slipping away is something you are much too capable of nowadays.