His mouth hung open, blue-grey smoke twisting between the slit, cigarette caught in the pinch of his thumb. The guitar sat comfortably in his lap, shoulders hunched to tighten strings. He held it with reverence, thumb stroking idly at the wood. Somewhere in the grain ventured sleepy absolution.

I sat close. Close, but far away. On the periphery of every margin. Tucked safe to watch, to listen, just to see the soft tilt of his mouth working wet against the filter. Baby-fine and gentle; mic a thief to trap each rasping breath. And from so close, so far, my fingers burned to grace his pulse. Nothing more. No other license offered except his beat. Strong, caged life harbored beneath muscle, vein, and skin.

Quiet, legs crossed, hands captured over knee, I shut my eyes and waited for the first whiskey stroke of his voice, gravel-rough, cavern-deep. To

touch
touch
touch
touch
touch me everywhere. The shiver-shock whispering. Mushroom-blossom passion ghosting over bone.

Then he started to sing. Savage-sweet, mellow-smooth. Drunk on it. On life. On love. The boundless proximal... energy. Veteran fingertips fathering a background lower than his voice. The two soldiering the onus of lights and stage, severed from the crowd.

He finished. To an audience wail. Sweat damp hair, eyes like sea-stone. Beautiful, tumultuous coldness. And I considered. For one concentrated second, I considered. Becoming all the things I abhor. Becoming, for pleasure’s sake, the Aphrodite. Lullable siren in the zero hour.

To feel breath and voice and body. Soft, angry, hard. I considered.

And still... I left the room with nothing but the smoke and sound.

Last night I was sitting in the courtyard of Cowboy Monkey listening to local alternative and relaxing under the stars. Ian was at my right, slowly stripping the label from the amber bottle in his hands, smiling like a fiend. I asked him what he was smiling at and with a tilt of his head, his blonde hair just as quirky as ever, he answered:

"At you... at this... at life."

I knew it was all alcohol inspired. Some of our best nights are, you know? I gave him a lopsided grin, the kind I always gave him, and kissed his mouth. Ian never fails to really kiss back. In another life we would have been a Hollywood Romance.

He tasted like imported beer and I'm sure I tasted like top-shelf bourbon and that one Marlboro Light I snuck back at the bar.

"What is this?" he whispered when he saw the change in my eyes.

What could I tell him? That it was born of the same stuff that made me weep silently as a child on the way home from my grandparent’s house? It was the knowledge that some day all of this would end and go away.

"Tell me what you're afraid of. You don't ever have to be afraid." In his eyes was nothing but conviction. I have never in my entire life known anyone with such unabbreviated will.

“Nothing,” I shouted above the music and smiled at him, wiping my lipstick from his mouth with my thumb.

Who was I to ruin the wide-eyed optimism of youth? He might never understand that every time I smell the rain, I know that what I’m experiencing has occurred a million times, even before the atoms became Adam and the world knew man. He might never appreciate that I know this smell will outlive me, survive us all, and that there’s a purity in it that transcends the sadness.

I looked up, into the stars made of carbon, and smiled towards the heavens. Then it began to rain. We all ran from the patio, scattering in all directions, he and I laughing as we finally made it back to the car. We were soaked in the smell, drenched in it, the rain washing the fear away.

I grabbed onto his shirt, watching the light blue melt against his skin, emphasizing his ribcage. Every breath of his was urgent, his body shuddering slightly, and I was in the same place with him that I always was. I hated myself because he was in love with me and because I would never let us become more than friends.

I stopped myself from doing what I wanted. I stopped myself from making mistakes, from burning bridges, from letting go... letting go like I always, always, always wanted to with him. I kissed his forehead, I kissed his cheeks, and he quietly closed his eyes. I kissed his lips, but only for a moment... wondering if the rain had washed away the taint of alcohol and cigarettes.

All of these moments are fleeting. No matter what we do to one another, nothing will ever leave a permanent scar that will outlive our memories here. We will love and we will hate, change and evolve, fuck up and be forgiven. We will live and we will die and in the end, the rain will be the only thing that lasts. The only thing that will ever truly matter.