i don't pay attention to the world ending. it has ended for me many times, and began again in the morning.
I
t seems I am found. I recognize the lost, more often than not, only seek solitude. He was alone, and now he is not—I wonder if that sits uncomfortably with him, if he would rather I had not turned the bend and we collided. “Do you want to be?” I ask, thinking I already know the answer.
I study his still-glass face. The placidity of his expression frightens me; it frightens me, because I am accustomed to stoicism belying innumerable, complicated intentions beneath. You’ve taken the whole pathway, the stranger says, with a note of dissatisfaction.
“I’m sorry.” I do not sound sorry. “In that case—would you like to join us?” If we are stone gargoyles, this stranger is the stars made flesh, soft galaxies and nebulas. If I were someone else, I might apologize—I might direct Damascus from the path. But I do neither of these things.
(Perhaps because, in some essence, his quiet disposition and lack of expression inspire me in an urge to break, to provoke, to cause. I have always been attracted to the stoics and the softly spoken, the men who make me believe they have secrets I could learn, or a heart I could break).
And yes, I think, I am attracted to him.
(I am attracted to him like a fire to tinder).
I want to burn, burn, burn.
