Love is an awful, empty promise, along with every kiss and gentle caress. Unspoken words of I love you, never leave you, promise my heart to you. Love is a taste you just can't spit out like their name crossing your lips and taunting your tongue. A tantalizing ecstasy like you're first hit of heroin. The poison coursing through your veins always seems like a loving embrace, but that's how they keep you coming back for more. Hook, line, and sinker. You're trapped in the never-ending maze of withered roses.
Now, by now you're probably wondering: "Damn, Matt, who hurt you?" Well, there's a long answer and a short answer and for the sake of saving my breath later, I'm going to tell you the whole story. It all started many, many years ago in Whammy, back when he and I were sad little orphans with no one else but each other. It was doomed for travesty in the first place, but that didn't stop me. Never does. In hindsight, 20/20 as it is, I should have known this. Mello was a devout and strict, by the "good" book, Catholic. As old fashioned as he was young. You wouldn't have guessed it by the way he dressed. I mean the guy practically screamed "sex!" Gay sex at that.
Actually, I'm getting ahead of myself, but hold that thought on the gay sex thing. Anyway, when we were kids, Mells and I made a promise to each other. Looking back it was childish and I shouldn't have given as much weight to it as I had, but that empty vow of never leaving my side was just too intoxicating and I was immediately hooked on the first taste of love I had ever had. I still remember that gap-toothed smile like it was yesterday. I miss those days. They just get further and further away. I feel myself reaching out toward the memories like a ship sailing off with the love of my life. Sometimes I swear I can still feel his hand in mine, dragging me off to who knows where to do who knows what.
These days he slinks around for the mafia he got tangled up in like a bad godfather remake. Now it's "stay home, Matt" and "it's not safe, Matt." I'm lucky if he comes home for longer than an hour. He's gone usually for weeks at a time and his bed remains cold and unused. Just like my heart.
There was one instant in a drunken moment of heated passion where he and I became one. For three blessed hours, there was no he nor I, just a mess of tangled limbs in a steam cloud of our own sweat and hot breaths. I can still feel his hands on my bare skin, the way they glided so effortlessly as if they knew every subtle curve of my skin. Chills raised my skin and he had giggled at the feel of the tiny bumps. At the time, I couldn't help the needy whine that slipped past my bruised lips. That hungry look in his eyes sent a shudder down my spine and it was in that very moment I knew that I would never get enough of his lips, his touch, his taste.
I wish I could say I remember the night fondly, but the next morning left a sour taste in my mouth. Mels erupted in a fit of homophobic rage when he woke up naked to my equally dressed body. He literally kicked me out of his bed and sent my sleeping mass tumbling to the floor, shouting obscene vulgarities at me. The drama queen even had the audacity to gag at the mere thought of sleeping with me. I remember the pure, unadulterated hate in his eyes and the way my heart sank into my stomach. He shouted some more as he leapt from his bed and stormed off to the bathroom. Steam curled out from under the door and I can only imagine he had the heat on full as he tried to scrub the hazy memory from his skin.
I didn't take it to heart. Not as much as I could have, anyway. I just scoffed and went to smoke a cigarette. It wasn't my first time, but man was it the best. I mean the cigarette, not the sex, the way I could feel the smoke curl and fill my lungs was so intoxicating. It was the first time I started chain-smoking and the first time Mels slammed the door in my face. That was the beginning of him disappearing for weeks to months on end. I missed him, still do.
Just what is it about love that has you always coming back for more? No matter how disastrous the heartbreak was and despite the writhing agony, you're constantly itching for the next epic story of passion to grasp you in its evil clutches. That enchantment is by far the most addicting substance I have ever encountered. There is nothing quite like the way your lover's hand graces your bare skin. The way they have every curve memorized like the back of their hand. It's pure ecstasy. Though I can't really speak from experience. The most I've ever endured is Mello's drunken stupor. His clumsy touch fondled me with as much grace as a newborn giraffe taking its first steps into life. I, being the low-standard guy that I am, loved every minute of it.