On the surface of a faraway planet the likes of which none but us will ever glimpse, I make her lie down on her belly on a bed of sand. She rests her chin on the back of her hands, and as I part her legs and spread her sex, her eyes dilate and become black holes. Maybe Cygnus X-1, and Cygnus X-3, but then again, maybe those we will never in this lifetime know of. One finger two finger three finger four. When they’re all in, she winces and tells me to be gentle, but when I’m like this, there’s no containing my savage ways. The sight of what I’m doing makes me salivate. It causes me to grind my teeth. The sight of what she is, it becomes the centre of my frayed and dysmorphic universe. She’s the whole reason for me being here, and no matter how much I try to deny it, her music is like the fluid in a needle, the kind that a junky makes his god. There’s a little wine and some music. The TV is on. A program about refugees gives the room a little colour as do the streetlights outside the window. She hasn’t washed since yesterday, and as such her body smells of butter and cream and the sea and honey and dying trees. She’s dirty and pretty and pure and cursed, and as she demands that I take her, she becomes my everything even though I don’t want her to be. As she turns over and lets me see what she is, I bite my arms trying to diffuse my urges, but those eyes. As she blinks those ageless eyes and smiles, they pull me in and chew me up as some kid on the TV dances in a field of strawberries. Yeah, she’s milk and melting plastic and a hive of insects that chirp our names as the cosmos swirls around our humming bodies that hum nursery rhymes the likes of which our childhood selves worshipped with utter, utter devotion. Her event horizon. It got me years ago, and even after so long, I can’t quite decide why I’m so unwilling in trying to escape when it hurts me more than it pleases.