I want to feel your shoulders. I want to run my rough hands along the curve of your biceps while standing far too close to your back. I want you to wonder if the pack of cigarettes in my pocket is something more exciting or something more excited. I want your soft skin to indent under the pressure of my finger tips, your breath to quicken, and your heartbeat to pound in the center of your jeans. I want the cold calluses on my hands to chill your skin, forcing blood to flood the pale white of your arms, warming you and reddening your tone. I want every hair on your body to stand on end as my breath, stale with the lingering scent of the last cigarette, limps across your neck, getting trapped in the dark of your hair. I want to trace the shape of your bra, the bums in your shirt, the edges skewed slightly by the thin fabric on top of it. I want you to whisper my name, your voice shaking as you reach for my hands. I want you to ache, starving and wishing for my firm grip to move its way south, and I want your breasts to feel near fatal anticipation as I hint to my intentions. I want the walls to fall away, and leave you standing alone with visions of us naked in your bed, your head on my chest, tracing the scars with your index finger. Visions of your tiny hands rubbing my clavicle, the bone protruding from years of malnourishment. I want you to snap back from your dreams to realize how close you are now. I want you to know how for so many years you were alone. How all of the other boys that made their passes, all the other men that voiced their urges were nothing. They never held a candle to what I can give you, and the ball in the pit of your stomach wants you to accept that. My slow embrace carries the gravity of a sinking ship, the pull of a thousand suns, and the heat of every last icecap that melts into oblivion.
But I am vile. I am putrid, and the touch of my flesh leads to necrosis only. Your body will go into shock, and before the rapidly progressing rot of your perfect skin encompasses every inch of you, you will look up at me and ask “why?” The puss will ooze from every orifice, natural or eroded out, and your stark white bones will start to decay, and I will say nothing. The black will fill your veins, and as your skin bubbles you will claw at it in terror. There is nothing you will be able to do. Like anything good in life, what I touch will die. Midas wasn’t so bad off, as his ends were quick and painless; trapped for ever in gold, a glinted trophy to excess and greed. My trophies aren’t as beautiful.
I have no feelings. I have no hopes or delusions of a cure. I don’t know why this happens only to me, but I try not to dwell on it for very long.
“And this is a reoccurring dream?” April said to me at last.
“Have you seen a therapist? Because this is some fucked up shit.”
“Why would I see a shrink when I have you, Snookums? You can fix all of my problems. All I ever need is you.” I took a bit of my hot dog. The convenience store hummed its usual florescent hum, and as April looked at me, her beautiful brown eyes had a secret behind them.
“You’re smothering me.”