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His Skin (A Love Story)

Poetry By: Diana Christina
Flash fiction



"A lion biding its time in the face of man, a tide."


Submitted:Jul 12, 2012    Reads: 13    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


Sir, like a wilting flower, sits by a static windowsill, watching passerby without notice-though, with large, fond hands; fond of touch, and of a violent elegance. Boy, bring me a drink, but in his eyes, there is a sea without shore, a knowing of salvation lost.

Speckled hands, an inversion of his, with valleys where mountains loom, rivers where roads start and then end.

Boy, akin to fawn: strong and sharp, but blunt in his tastes and therefore in possession of feckless hands. Glass is dropped, and-

Pleasure is violent as boy's delicate features flare charismatically, a lion biding its time in the face of man, a tide.

Inevitable.

As it crashes, salt washes away all trace of blood-stasis.

"Father, you are no sir."

And he is no boy; no longer.

Bottle fixed in a set of stoic hands-in the line of a pair of fatalistic eyes-the ocean does not tear, for the man, with a steady beating heart, does not waver this time.

"Sir."

"Son."





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