When the eyes of his lover meet his, he folds his arms; as if he consciously wishes his limbs to resemble the frail crosses bridled with plastic flowers along the freeway underpass. Rest in peace they say. "It's funny that our bodies fit but our minds don't." He whispers it coyly and she doesn't hear him and smiles, taking the murmured statement as positive, just as the tone was. Positive and sexy; uplifting, even. Yes, it is funny that the emotional realm can have everything to do with what isn't physical. His perceived empty inside just blowing cold and scary, depthless, not the truth, not truthful. But not depthless as in endless, depthless as in shallow. As in a matte gray expanse held close to his eyes; so close as to render his eyes useless, all blurry and unfocused. And that is what he champions in this life: disconnection, loss, puerile subversions, massive blood loss (of the mental sort), creation of doubt, anonymity, the feeling of dull aching. Problematic and decisive. Self fulfilling and all inclusive. This club welcomes us all, her eyes seem to say as she slips an imaginary knife in his gut. "You've just gotta be willing to see what's real and what's imaginary." Don't let this ever present heart pull you 20,000 Leagues under because there isn't anything but ropes, razors, firearms, exhaust pipes, and pill bottles down there. The stereotype of melodrama prowls down there. Down there where you can't see that these fantasies of abandon are immature because of the lack of sunlight. Just sulfur burning your eyes and a single blinking light attached to a predator. Glass bones and pressure sensitive frames, well we've got those up here too. "So don't," she says, "don't go down there."
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