He. Is. Beautiful.
Wonderfully, gloriously, fantastically beautiful; yes indeed! Gorgeous.
His skin is soft, brown, and pleasant to the eye as well as the hand. His eyes are deep and thoughtful- but only at some times. At others, they are guarded, mistrustful. I cannot blame him, our pasts are not so dissimilar; his of poverty, yes, and mine of mild wealth. Our past has been traumatic; we are brothers in fear and brothers in hate and brothers in hell. I have no doubt that we shall follow each other to hell as it is, once we die.
His eyes show more than his face. As we lay together that night, I had not looked much into his eyes. We had already lain together with such exuberant fury. We spoke little but to encourage the lust of the other.
After hours of this, we lay in bed, my head on his chest and his fingers running through my hair. And we kissed. We had kissed before, during those hours together, but this was different. This was not a soft, sweet kiss accompanying the glow of orgasm, no- this was a desperate kiss, a kiss that drove through the fear, the hate, and the hell, straight into our souls. We spent a long time, then, revisiting the sins of the afternoon well into the night. But it was no longer about lust alone.
His eyes were so deep, then. We stared at each other, confused, hurt, ecstatic. We knew what it was we had done, and we knew why it was wrong. We knew why we couldn't do it again. And so I kissed him again. And he kissed me. And we spoke those words we should not have spoken. Those terrifying three words, laden with meaning, and devoid of any regret. And we told the truth. And we did not regret it. And we do not regret it.
We love each other, yes. But we are not allowed to, for so many reasons. My girlfriend, for one. His illness, for another. And yet we do- and I regret nothing. I love him, for he is my friend, and friendship should not be limited by the expectations of others. I do not desire him as anything but my brother in fear, hate, and hell.
May God forgive me.