The pain is the right temperature, exacted as I craved it-the delicate balance between tearing and climatic release. He knows where and when and how without any hint. We don't speak - we dig and grip, we become the Night Spirit...I feel this quake, this overwhelming need...he is the only one to ever touch me this high-to know me without the waste perpetrated by fancy dinners and movies and checklists of like minded pursuits. Forty-eight hours and I hardly know anything about his life save that he already has me deciphered and it is fucking about time that I open myself to abandon. The police find drunks and hobos and runaways and junkies in the parks. They see miscreants, but I hear howling.
He looks different when the Moon lets the Sun take over. Not as pale, not as wild, yet the animal instinct is still there, and not entirely by cosmetic intervention. He is the incarnate hunter, the king snake...He can use me, take me and have me. I will not deny. I must stop myself from screwing this up for here is someone who knows.
He has fed upon the rain and knows I need it too.
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