I decided somewhere along the line that death would be better than anything. I don’t really know when it was that I made this decision... Every memory feels like part of a dream. But, then, maybe it is.
Maybe I am already dead, and dreaming of life. I can’t say that I know, or that I understand. I can’t even say that I want to.

The most beautiful man I have ever seen... Does not exist.
I see him in dreams, reaching out to me... Calling my name...
I hear him sometimes in my waking hours. Walking down the street, I will sense him, hear my name in his voice. But, always, I turn around and there is nothing of him there. Never any hint that he is real. Because he isn’t.
I mourn for him. I know he must be dead... Much, perhaps, like I am. Maybe we are both dead, and our dreams are the way our souls converse.
I can’t remember ever being terribly spiritual... But there is something about this man, this sad, moon-pale man, that makes me believe in... something. Maybe it isn’t God that has revealed him to me. Or maybe he is some powerful spirit, and it is his own twisted will that tortures me with his ephemeral presence.

I have this dream where the whole world is exploding, bright, around us. We are nothing but space in the shimmering, hot, unnatural fire.
Always, in the dream, I am with him. This is how I know that he is dead, and that I, too, am not really alive. It is a sign of how much I must have depended on him, I know: I am dead because he is dead. We are dead together.
This man, whoever he is, rules my life, controls me. Whether he consciously knows it, or not, is inconsequential. Perhaps there is nothing left of him that physically exists. Maybe he isn’t in this world, again, like I am... I don’t know. But, man or ghost, he controls everything I do, everything I know, all that I am.
I think that it has always been this way. He has always been the guide in my darkness, the defining factor. He is either my savior or my curse, or maybe both. He is gorgeous, and graceful, but he is also terrible, and lethal. Despite his beauty, he is, somehow, a threat to me.
I want to trust him. In my dreams, I always want to reach back for him, to grasp his hand. But I do not, I cannot. I cannot allow myself to trust this beautiful, blonde man, because he is a menace to me.
I cannot help but he afraid of this man. He is like some half-tamed beast, all the energy of the world, pent up into one human body, ready to spring free. If only for this, than he is more dangerous than a nuclear bomb.
There is also a sense of familiarity about him, although it is not always a pleasant one. I recognize him as the man I love, but also as the man who has hurt me in innumerable ways. I obviously don’t know what those ways are, anymore, but... I know that he is dangerous to me, if only because of the ferocity of his passion.
Yes, I think that is the most apt way of describing it. His energy, his passion, his love... All of it is walled in behind this medium of ice, this calculated nature, this social cruelty. But all of his strength is right beneath that, burning, obvious like toned muscle beneath skin. I know that it is there, and I know how much he loves me. I know that he would stop at nothing to find me, to be with me. If it were possible, he would cross time for me, to be here with me now. He died for me.
I know that he is dead because of me. His love for me caused him to give up his life. I guess that he didn’t believe he could go on alone, but...
The most frightening thing is that I know... I know that not only did he die for me, but that I died for him.
We died together, in a burst of energy and light, heat and sparks. Maybe it was is own energy, or maybe it was mine. But we went out together, like one, single light.
We are dead together.

-end-

Mail the Author!