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Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous. —William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
Instead, I settle into my own seat. “Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to dip your wick?” When nothing registers on his face, I elaborate. “You know, polish the brass?” No reaction. “Hide the salami?” Nothing. “Do the devil’s dance?”
Rain leaks from the heavens like blood from an artery.
“So don’t act like you invented pain. It’s an insult to the rest of us.”
“I know you think I am all anger,” he says as though he read my mind, “and much of the time, I am—but
His eyes are steady on mine. “Because you are human and I imagine you like compliments far more than I do. And for whatever insufferable reason I want to give you many.”
I don’t simply exist, he once said, I hunger.
all your jagged edges nestled against mine.
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“You were made from the earth,” I whisper to her skin, “I can feel the universe moving through you, and yet you are something else unto yourself.
“I have felt the earth move, I have felt the grinding of rock as mountains shift and the world changes shape. None of it could prepare me for you.
The Reaper’s lips quirk. “Little flower, don’t you know? I happen to enjoy it when you pee on my boots, and you sing songs off-key, and when I wake up to your atrocious morning breath—you know, you also fart in your sleep.” Jesus. “This is the worst proposal I have literally ever heard,” I say.
