When the moment arises, I fetch a memory of you and put it into words. When the doorway opens, I take a slice of dead time and in my own strange way, make it come alive. This is how I get my kicks. This voodoo shit. This magic that drains me as much as it saves me. It’s both a kiss and a knife wound while looking up at the sky imagining what life is like in some other part of the galaxy. Is there a love such as ours, or is what we have to be cherished because when it’s gone all hope is lost for sure? In those unknown planets that orbit stars with mathematical names, are there those who know what it feels like too? And if so, do their thoughts mirror ours as they look up at the same, familiar yet strange sky? Showering while thinking about those rocky terrains of planets so alien, I picture you on your belly with the fingers of my right hand sliding in and out. Then, with my left hand, I’m spreading your cheeks glimpsing the future and the past, and as my lips kiss your skin, the eternal change comes calling once again. Scrubbing my chest, I tilt my head back and see you there pretending to not want it, but the more I claw and bite, the more you give yourself and the more you suck me in. Is it chemical or mere illusion? Is it profound or just another act in another play with no name? So many questions, and such little time. It should be summer, but it rains for days on end. It should be sunny, but it’s like the fall came falling three months early. Peeling back my foreskin, I scrub and inspect, and when the image and feel of you beneath me grows and grows, I press and rub the ridge of my cock until I’m growling like a beast unable to contain myself any longer. When the moment comes to come, the texture and surface of your body wash over me like a dust storm on one of those strange planets that exist like they don’t exist, y’know, like the sound of a tree plunging to its death in a forest when no one else is around.