Loneliness does not kill - it nurtures death
Date: June 1, 2000
Time: A bit after sunset before leaving home
Place: Arcadia gallery
Characters Involved: Montague Morsus and himself
Rating: PG-13 for slight, ah, sexuality
Status: Complete
Modesty, like kindness, had never been his forte. Montague stood in front of the large mirror, subtly ornamented, ebony framing. He stood starkly nude in the Caravaggio lighting, a glaring chiaroscuro in the sepia of the setting sun, disrupting the pitch-black darkness of the room.
Where did it go?
Body slim and smooth, not a stain nor a blemish, he was beautiful (no doubt). His piercing glare was locked on the equally fierce gaze of his counterpart, as his hand slowly rose to brush lightly against the glassy fingers.
"And my hair, my hair is rosin," he recited a poem - non-existent, like disappearance into now. There was a slight detachment to his voice, empty, void of all the things that matter. Because-- because, what?
A poisonously green bottle of absinth lay (strewn) across the marble table, amidst the pile of pitch-black petals. Forget chiaroscuro, the twilight, a friend of many and the youngsters tragic - the light was dying, the starkness gone.
"Sfumato, staccato, disguised as scopata," he whispered, and his lover smirked back. He stood - obscure, and detached, demanding lust after lust. The layers, transparent, after layers, transparent, reflected the curves and the angles. His body was dimmed in the starlight, wherein the sun still gripped at the sky. Its crackled varnish blue asked for drippity-drippity blood. Miserable.
"Miserable," he said, leaning closer and closer. "Miserable," he said, as his lips touched his lips. "Miserable," it echoed, the mirror in mist.
It was nights like these when Montague felt like death.
"Wait on me," he thought, disapparating into his mansion.
Time: A bit after sunset before leaving home
Place: Arcadia gallery
Characters Involved: Montague Morsus and himself
Rating: PG-13 for slight, ah, sexuality
Status: Complete
Modesty, like kindness, had never been his forte. Montague stood in front of the large mirror, subtly ornamented, ebony framing. He stood starkly nude in the Caravaggio lighting, a glaring chiaroscuro in the sepia of the setting sun, disrupting the pitch-black darkness of the room.
Where did it go?
Body slim and smooth, not a stain nor a blemish, he was beautiful (no doubt). His piercing glare was locked on the equally fierce gaze of his counterpart, as his hand slowly rose to brush lightly against the glassy fingers.
"And my hair, my hair is rosin," he recited a poem - non-existent, like disappearance into now. There was a slight detachment to his voice, empty, void of all the things that matter. Because-- because, what?
A poisonously green bottle of absinth lay (strewn) across the marble table, amidst the pile of pitch-black petals. Forget chiaroscuro, the twilight, a friend of many and the youngsters tragic - the light was dying, the starkness gone.
"Sfumato, staccato, disguised as scopata," he whispered, and his lover smirked back. He stood - obscure, and detached, demanding lust after lust. The layers, transparent, after layers, transparent, reflected the curves and the angles. His body was dimmed in the starlight, wherein the sun still gripped at the sky. Its crackled varnish blue asked for drippity-drippity blood. Miserable.
"Miserable," he said, leaning closer and closer. "Miserable," he said, as his lips touched his lips. "Miserable," it echoed, the mirror in mist.
It was nights like these when Montague felt like death.
"Wait on me," he thought, disapparating into his mansion.