Only About Love
When I shave him he moves his mouth and face around like he's chewing an invisible sweet. He offers up his neck with absolute trust; I glide the blade down beneath his chin and over his Adam's apple. It's massive, like he's swallowed a rock. I hear the rasp of his stubble and it's almost like the noise is coming from me, because there is sandpaper inside me. My stomach is made if it. My heart is made of it. My throat. My insides have been transformed into a million tiny pieces of rock. He can no longer speak, but words are unnecessary. Life is now simple in its cruelty; he once cared for me and now I am caring for him. Each touch of my fingers on his skin reminds him that love still exists. I want all his waking thoughts from now on to be only about love.
