DISCLAIMER: done own don't sue. The poems belongs to T.S. Eliot ("Preludes" and "Rhapsody on a windy night").

Spread on the bed, the two lovers sleep. Restlessly, but nonetheless they sleep. They turn themselves over in the bed, move closer to each other but never touch. Their mouths move soundlessly, as if they are invoking invisible gods. Their hair graces their foreheads, both raven dark, though one wears his short and then other long. They sleep long after the sun is up, and their room, which smells of cigarette smoke and winter, is lit. In the dusty little room, they sleep but they do not dream.

The winter evening settles down

With smells of steaks in passageways.

Six o'clock.

The burnt-out ends of smoky days.

And now gusty shower wraps

The grimy scraps

Of withered leaves about your feet

And newspapers from vacant lots;

The showers beat

On broken blinds and chimney pots,

And at the corner of the street

A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.

Sirius loves to sit on the small balcony of their hotel room. He loves it how the smoky breeze brushes his hair and lingers around his face as he sits, staring out into the horizon, cigarette between two limp fingers. Sometimes James joins him; sits beside Sirius, comfortably first, then uncomfortably, following Sirius gaze out onto the horizon. He asks Sirius what he sees, because evidently he isn't seeing it. And when Sirius says that he sees nothing, James goes back inside and lies on the bed, twisting the sheets around his body so they form a twisted cocoon. And Sirius comes back inside and joins him, and they have sex and afterwards lie on the bed, Sirius between James legs as he traces the night sky on Sirius' back.

The morning comes to consciousness

Of faint stale smells of beer

From the sawdust trampled street

With all its muddy feet that press

To early coffee stands.

With the other masquerades

That time resumes,

One thinks of all the hands

That are raising the dingy shades

In a thousand furnished rooms.

Sirius loves to draw James while he is sleeping. He draws the gentle curve of the lips, the smooth line of his torso, the sharp angle of his hipbone. He sits for hours, caressing James form with is eyes as he sleeps. He watches James turn himself over, flexing the taut muscles of his abdomen. Sirius wants to run his hand over the abdomen, feel the smoothness of the skin, and taste the salt in it. But more than that, Sirius wants to watch James sleep. He wants to draw the sleeping Adonis, the Grecian god in the bed before him. But when James wakes, Sirius is sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper and drinking whiskey from the bottle.

You tossed a blanket from the bed

You lay upon your back, and waited;

You dozed, and watched the night revealing

The thousand sordid images

Of which your soul was constituted;

They flickered against the ceiling.

Sirius loves to talk with James. When James asks Sirius of his preferred philosopher, Sirius replies with Eliot and Hugo, because Sirius has never cared for any philosophy but his own, and he believes that the poet and the writer had it figured out. They disagree on many things; that humanity is doomed, which Sirius believes and James avidly disagrees with. Sirius wants to fuck James most when they are arguing. James is worked up, eyes bright and hands flying and Sirius wants nothing more than James inside him.

Sirius loves when James reads Eliot for him. He lies on the grass, listening to James rich tenor covering the words as he recites "The Hollow Men" for Sirius. He feels the air, thick and seductive around him, he opens his eyes to massive expanse of darkness above. James' whisper cuts the air: "This is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends..."

Sirius pushes his body up and surrenders himself to the sky.

"Not with a bang but a whimper".

His soul stretched tight across the skies

That fade behind a city block,

Or trampled by insistent feet

At four and five and six o'clock;

And short square fingers stuffing pipes,

And evening newspapers, and eyes

Assured of certain certainties,

The conscience of a blackened street

Impatient to assume the world.

Sirius loves to sit in the café with James. He likes the darkness that surrounds the shop (it is 4 o'clock in the morning) and that the café stands out like a beacon of light. He sits at the table with James, not speaking, just sitting in his presence. Sirius finds it comforting to have James with him, as he stares out into the darkness. When the sun rises, they go back to the dusty hotel room and fuck.

I am moved by the fancies that are curled

Around these images, and cling:

The notion of some infinitly gentle

Infinitly suffering thing.

The first full moon that rose over the hotel was met by Sirius' soul. It was the first time he and James hadn't been with Remus when he transformed. Guilt racked him, twisting him up in knots and unwinding him again, only to be coiled again. He sat, watching the moon and drinking, wondering where Remus was. When he cut his head on a cupboard door, he screamed.

The memory throws up high and dry

A crowd of twisted things;

A twisted branch upon the beach

Eaten smooth, and polished

As if the world gave up

The secret of its skeleton

Stiff and white.

The mangled flesh, torn and bleeding, letting out the hurt and anger in the soul. The blood and hurt poured down his face, he closed his eyes, and surrendered to the grief.

The brand of Cain.

Sitting along the bed's edge, where You curled the papers from your hair, Or clasped the yellow soles of feet In the palms of both soiled hands.
Sirius sits on the balcony, cigarette hanging between two fingers as he stares out at the horizon. Motionless, expressionless, he holds a letter in his hand, which sways in the gentle smoky wind. James comes out, and sits beside Sirius, dark circles under his eyes, and face pale with tiredness. He grasps the letter from his lover's hand, who doesn't react, and reads the letter. 5 words are written in neat and careful ink: Come home James, I'm pregnant.
The wind blows the letter down off the balcony, and onto the street below.
The lamp said, 'Four o'clock, Here is the key to the door. Memory!

You have the key,

The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.

Mount.

The bed is open; the toothbrush hangs on the wall,

Put on your shoes at the door and prepare for life.'

James pushes himself onto his lover's chest, blood tears falling as he cries out in hurt. Sirius sits silently, staring out at the horizon, fingers caressing the cut, the brand, breaking the skin and feeling the blood on his fingertips.

The last twist of the knife.

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