The air around us sighs. It breaths for us, replacing the gusts we have lost with the tangling of our bodies. The atmosphere is sticky, velvety. It clings to our shells, presses against us as we converge upon each other. It seeps between sweat slick thighs, stinging with it's brisk coldness. Flared nostrils puff clouds of white into the darkness, and muscles ripple beneath equally pale skin. Moans and cries circle away from us, and echo back off the walls, their sounds amplifying a thousand times.
He sucks in between his teach as my fingers dance up his spine. His skin slips in my grip and we fall together again. Our teeth clash, our lips splitting, and the juice of our pounding lives trickles between where we meet. It is spicy and hot, like cinnamon tea, and we suck at it greedily, sipping it from each other's lips.
It is a mimicking process, this dace that we perform. It is the copying of motions, of identical bodies, of similar forms. It is black against black, and white against white, with staining highlights of red form scrapes and cuts and bites. It is dangerous, and delicious. It is vortex of disastrous bliss. It is our one and only vice, the struggling souls of broken boys. It is our dirty little secret, hidden beneath folds of black sheets and dark eyes. It is our heaven in hell.
We love it, we hate it. We suck it up, and spit it out. We try to run, we try to hide, but we always end up coming back.
"Oh…Ahhh!" Grunts and whispered gasps. White fingers buried in black satin hair, and a writhing, twisting release. It is over, but we lie there glued together by what used to be part of our own bodies.
"I love you."