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and the universe said i love you because you are love

You were born of love, crafted out of love’s internal body, energy pulsing with emotion, each reminder of love crashing through your composition like ocean waves. Larry is here — he is here. He is growing fond of you, shows it in words and actions. Me and us and we harmonic in the air, repetitive in your mind. You want to scream the words, to drown in what you have yearned for eternally: love, reciprocated love, true intimacy with him and within him. He does not love you; you understand this simply because it is the ultimate truth, because you know his mind better than your own, at this point, and it’s harrowing, mortifying,

how horribly you crave this. You are hollow and he is hollow. You want to fill him up in the right way, to end his hollowness and curl within him, love instead of invasion; it’s not realistic, he does not love you, and that will always be okay, you will always have your thoughts and the internal desires that he cannot read—

but this—

This isn’t—

This is not a fantasy, this is the real universe you live in, the body of the entirely holy, and he is asking you to hold him, on his bed in the dark. You have to take a moment to parse it, to force yourself into understanding: he craves the true intimacy, he can’t, but he wants you, he wants your comfort. You are a comfort, now. He wants you. It isn’t the same. It can never be the same. This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

You have to do this. You cannot refuse. He is lonely, and bored, and he doesn’t want his mind to fall back into old habits, his previous horrors. You have to do this. He needs you. You need him—

You emerge halfway from his body, wrap your arms around him. Comfort. Comfort. Comfort. Unbearable comfort. Paradoxical. You study his skin, the way his veins curl, the beauty that still radiates from him — has always radiated from him. Even in his worst moments. Even in his acts of bitterness towards you. Even in his hatred, Larry Trainor is beautiful. You despise him for that. You despise him for everything.

You were born of love’s organ. Try again.

You love him for everything.

You try very hard not to touch his skin, to keep your hands over his undershirt only. Touch means fear, touch means intimacy, touch means insatiable horrors. It is the hardest thing you have ever done. The world is harsh, but the ultimate struggle is managing intimacy without intimacy. Belonging with no belonging. It is a voiding ache.

He looks over at you. Turns to his side — oh and a brushing occurs, skin pushing up against you. Larry Trainor’s eyes staring into yours, bursting you apart, and he’s loosening you by the stitches with his fingers placed under the core of you, he’s opening you and exposing heart. All with one look. That is how he functions---this is how you function. Fragile in strength.

Larry’s eyes close. He’s not unconscious, merely asleep, in your arms, within your grasp, tangible. Larry Trainor, now tangible. You do this now, you can hold him close. He embraces your embrace. How long have you wanted this? How long has this haunted you?

He lets out a soft moan in his sleep. This is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen, this is a moment that will grow inextricable; you will live here endlessly, you will never forget the sight of this, the intimate feeling. His skin, burning acidic against you.

Serenity.