You do something to me that I cant explain...

"He doesn't look well," I think. But it's not unwell in a mental way that you claim. Something else is going on that he dare not speak of. I started the evening wanting an apology, but soon realized it wasn't coming and nor was it important. Now I feel sadness and, dare I say it, pity.

Regardless, it's been a sad day from before it started. I awoke with a dream of someone I'd wronged. In the dream, he forgave me, but in life he's gone. We slipped through each others lives as silently as my seed through your fingers.

I'd wanted him from the moment we met in high school, and he the same, but we just never knew until it was too late. By the time we'd acted upon it, our paths were already diverging; mine into the thick and yours off into a valley of sunshine and rainbows. Did he ever find that pot of gold? I really hope so...he deserves it.

My mind is in a fog from mixing my drinks as momma warned me not to. Now I look for traces of them on the net, but I realize that this Orpheus has turned around too late.

I'm the winner of cards I can't play...

"Fuckin' A," I said as I threw away the last of my little. yellow. indifferent.

13 (Lucky) years ago, I vowed that I was done. The simultaneous chipping away of my mask; my mind. They were only partially-responsible for my heart trouble. A good scape-goat nonetheless. I swore the pills off. And when sanity returned all else came crashing down like a Paris Opera House chandelier.

Had my prescription-altered mood drove the sun away? Or was it sucked away by an ill-timed blow job from his home-town friend?

That pain cannot be matched by hours under knives, needles, lasers, drills, and various forms of torture as they constructed my new mask. Still, sometimes as I look into the mirror for some resemblance of my old self, underneath -- I can`t help by feel ugly.

Dont call me a faggot, not unless you are a friend...

Stepping out of the cold, I'm caught by his glance. Knowledge and experience take me to the place he fears to tread. He sees the signs behind my steel blues that tell him what he already knows.

And though he may furrow his brow, his eyes are a contradiction, and the ring on his finger merely a token of his hypocrisy.

"I have been there before," I glare back. "I have tasted your sticky sweet as it slid off of your belly, quickly cooling in the evening chill."

He can look away, pretend he doesn`t know, but does he fool? Not I, nor he, and certainly not the rest of the family.

As I bathe in his disgust, I am overcome with pity -- I know what he refuses to.