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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