Jacob Jing | Prose

It is over. In our euphoria, we have killed the stars. They flake off the window in large, moonless pieces, sheening the ground with dying luminance. I watch as the blackness honeys over your cold cheek, the shadows rippling against your flush as if to reenact our sin. Your face lolls against them, your mouth in the shape of an apology. I reach for you first, pleading for silence with splayed fingers. We are the only witnesses to our own breathless violence, our murder of light. We are defined by our own brackets, and your guilt is my only vice. Dragging you against me, I squeeze the galaxies out of your aching pores and wring out the moonlight from your dirty hair. Your body is still brilliant with the blaze of our reckless revolution, but the luster is fading with your regret, shipwrecking me alone in the darkness we caused together. I can only begrudge you for the abandonment. Remember this moment, I tell you viciously. We will never be freed from it. 

Your cries reverberate until the morning, body arched like a sunbeam that will never come. I hold you silently and wonder if this is what freedom means.