Vis-à-vis
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Show me longing. Show me lust. Show me more than these lifeless, empty kisses. You won't resuscitate anyone with lax lips like those.
Look: boys who kiss boys who kill other boys are not going to lay there soft and sleepy like blind, newborn puppies and let you take a picture of their mouths just-brushing. These boys are going to fuck each other's mouths with their tongues; they're going to cling and claw and fight tooth and nail for a searing glimpse of vitality, of mortality. They won't just wear their stylish coats and stand there pantomiming feeling. They will take sensation like it's their lifeblood, and they will bleed every last drop of it from each other and still rage for more. These boys know lust-- perhaps not the dark, flesh-based desire that you've woken from dreams of, sheets sticky and heart pumping, but lust to be alive, to feel what you feel and to know what you know. To feel the empty cavities of their chests thump and pump thick, copper heat through their veins. To feel more of each other than skin, fists, and teeth.
Every touch is a battle, a question, an affirmation that yes, they're real. Yes, they're still here. And it's sloppy, and it's harsh, and it's desperate, and it hurts, but Goddamn it, they're still here. They're still real, almost. Acknowledge it.