Laundanum for my Soul

--~For Nigel~--

"I don't need a mirror. I see my reflection in my lover's eyes."

It's hard to believe in beauty when there is only pain, a tight rope around your neck, a sign you are branded with, a birthmark you can't get rid of because nobody cares, so "beautiful" is farther than the moon: you know it would be easier to reach this magical silver coin than anything close to this unreachable trait, which slowly but surely loses its meaning. The world gets betrayed of its colors, charms and enchantment, and life itself becomes martyrdom, a lonely journey through the circles of hell.

Of course there are still moments you dare to smile, blessed little timespans you are able to forget about what you are, but these glimpses are rare and mostly combined with a brutal awakening. You are a monster, Francis, and no one will ever love you.

If the world calls you a monster already, it's easy to become one. You swallow down your tears and kindness, and allow the cold around you rule your mind. No hope, no love. No light. When there is only darkness... make darkness your best friend.

At the end of February I was sick with fever. Because I couldn't leave the house I lived on tea and Whiskey, instant soup and antibiotics. An overdose of cough syrup and codeine drops made me dizzy, so I slept a lot, and, with my temperature reaching its peak, I fantasized even more, but at this point I didn't feel bad any longer. I was just weak, tired and stoned, dreaming about the weirdest things. Loneliness whispered to my ear, and though I knew I would survive this cold, I wished somebody would care for me. 

It must have been early dusk, for I remember that I opened my eyes to a breathtaking sunset, blood seeping through the curtains and liquid fire trickling down the walls, when this unknown man walked into my room, stopping in front of my bed and smiling at me as if the unshaven sweaty guy wrapped into three warm blankets was all he has ever longed to see. He appeared curious and friendly, and he was forbidden handsome, but, bitch, please, who let him in? If I did... I must have been sleepwalking. I must have been in trance. Like I was in trance when I gazed at him, his beauty confusing and arousing me. He sat down on my bed and took my cold trembling hand. The angel of death, I thought all of a sudden.

"Hello, gorgeous", he said. His voice was low and accented. His lips bewitched me to stare at them, imagining I could slip between them to slowly melt on his tongue. Still perplexed I managed to smile. His smile nearly broke my heart.

A pitiful coughing fit later he allowed my runny eyes to feast on his naked body, the first nightly shadows accenting the tender curves of his muscles with lavender brushstrokes. I know that I blinked several times, completely exhausted from heavy breathing, and with the light slowly getting dim he looked like a moving statue to me, so I somehow still doubted that he was real, for real life isn't the plot of a p0rn movie, a fvcking beautiful lad coming to your house to repair your dishwasher though you don't even own any.

While I managed to unwrap one of my arms to reach out for this delicious vision slowly drowning in the darkness of my sleeping room he instantly grabbed my hand again, lifting my three sweaty blankets to slip underneath them, his lips meeting mine to the first amazing feverish kiss. Needless to say that he took my breath away, but I didn't care, I kissed him like there would be no tomorrow, his spicy cigarette flavor mingling with my bitter taste of codeine. His arms slipped around me in a tight embrace, and while I still struggled with the assumption that I must be dreaming, I noticed not all parts of my body felt weak. His touch convinced me that I was wide awake.

He never told me how and why he came to my house and into my bedroom. Yet since this evening he never left me.

In the exhausted silence of a blurry dawn I asked him about his name: Nigel. But I'm inclined to call him Mygel, for he is truly MY anGEL, my omnipresent savior. I think I created him from my wildest imagination and my deepest desire to be loved, so I fell for him long before I got to know him. I simply relished the idea of him. The idea he could exist. The idea he could be mine. My fever dream lover. My beautiful obsession.

If Nigel had come with the intention to get his hooks in me and make me addicted he succeeded completely. I am addicted. To the way he looks at me, the way he smiles when he says "I love you", the tiny wrinkles in the corners of his flickering eyes. I'm addicted to the velvety texture of his lips and the flavor of his saliva. The shameless way he kisses me and the greedy way I kiss him. I'm addicted to his body, the soft arch of his spine, the wiry fur covering his firm chest, the endless pleasure between his thighs. The way his skin curls against my fingertips, the map of shivers I leave on him every night. The scars and marks, the tiny flaws, this horrible tattoo on his neck. The heat he enkindles, the bliss that makes me rise and fall. His skillful hands. His moans, gasps and growls, this blessed moment he closes his lids and bites his lower lip when another well known little death washes away all of our senses.

I'm addicted to the words I find for him. The poems I write on his skin. The words I didn't find yet, and those waiting to be found somewhere in the depths between heat and damnation.

I'm addicted to our love.
I'm addicted to his beauty.
I'm addicted to the magic between us.
I'm addicted to my reflection in his eyes.