Antithesis
He compliments me. I never noticed it before. I never saw the way he is light and I am dark. Though, in reality, it's the other way around. I am his sun and he is my shadow. My silver shadow, my sliver of mercury seeping into my pores and poisoning my heart.
I never noticed it until Fred pointed it out. He and George don't compliment. They blaze. The fire of their hair pales in comparison to the fire of their passion. They joke about it. They try to play it down. But look in their eyes. They're like infernos. They're phoenixes, really, constantly rebirthing each other with the flames of their love. Forging each other anew, every night, stronger, more powerful.
I'm looking at him now, in the soft light coming in through the window. He almost looks dead; he makes so little noise when he sleeps. His narrow shoulders have goosebumps on them, exposed like they are. He's so beautiful sometimes, so lithe and delicate … and so dangerous. He's like a needle, sliding unnoticed into my skin and infecting me with his venom.
I beg him for it. Night after night, I plead for him to just infect me, to claim me and make me an addict. He can't resist it. He never could. Night after night, he injects me with his silver poison that my system welcomes as readily as wine. Even though it destroys me.
We compliment, Fred says. Light and dark, day and night. How long until the moon is swallowed and consumed, willingly, by the infinite obscurity of a false sun?
