Més estiu (que no, però quasi) i més perills

It was dark; dark as night, dark as empty, dark as dead. No lights, no hopes. The racing sound of his heartbeat was dying, fading into the dephts of the abyss. And it was all mine.

Never had I thought of letting him go: my light beneath my darkness, my hope between my fingers, my life in this well of death.

But the thirst of him was unbearable, unstoppable; it was nothing but greed, gluttony, lust of him. And I wanted it all.

I could see the fear in his eyes, how he despised me the most. But it was far too late for him to be afraid. Both knew  what was going on there: no more tears, no more painful cries, no more of him, just more of me. All for me.

Pretending not to see, pretending not to feel, all his body trembled at the touch of my bare hands. Fighting fire with ice, agony with indifference, fear with courage.

The warm of his skin, the cold in his eyes, the sorrow in my gasp. Bitterness. Rawness. Loneliness. Freedom.

It was dark; dark as night, dark as empty, dark as dead... but there was light now. There was hope. My racing heartbeat, livelier than ever. Waiting for the next one to come. Waiting for the one who will be mine. Waiting for the beginning, again.