After we made love the other night, I looked at you, lying naked, silhouetted against the moonlight that crept into our apartment like a voyeur. I let my fingers trace the outline of your body—the curves and the arched back, speaking a language of fiery oranges and whispered reds. I then looked at the surrounding space that murmured of the futility of it all. Finally, looking into your eyes, I knew a deep melancholy. You sensed it too, didn’t you? The ephemerality of passion, the quick transformation of nirvana into pathos, the deterioration of a together transcendence, the metamorphosis of transparency into obsidian. We love each other, but detest ourselves. We want the best for the other but desire the worst for ourselves, and all this creates a twisted amalgamation of love, lust, masochism, anger and sorrow. I wish we had it some other way, but the cracked earth, the withered leaves, the weeds and the humidity are all we’ve known. So, meet me where the stream dries, where the skies are yellow, where the seas roar and the waves inundate the fisherman’s hut, where twisters rip sturdy trunks and lightning flashes, where the thunder screams with hate, and know that we’ll forever love each other in this profoundly wicked way, finding in ourselves our minimums, but in the other, our maximums.
Photo by Ilia Chunin on Unsplash
Ordinary Person 
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