1:53 a.m., feels like time’s dissolving but I don’t want to think about existential shit anymore. He settles onto my lap with a playful smile. I wonder about living. And then, I don’t.

Picks at my blazer.

“This colour’s so pretty on you.”

He says nice things like that. He says nice things because I pay him and slip big bills in chocolate boxes. He says nice things because I make him feel guilty.

“I must have good taste,” I say and he smiles again, knowingly.

Silky robe slips off his shoulder. Wears nothing underneath. I run my hands across his smooth chest. He knows what I like. His skin catches in the pink ceiling spotlights like the glow of wildfire. And I know why I keep coming back and I why I don’t stop myself.

I don’t stop myself when the memory of Lucky’s lips on mine seeps into the middle of my days. I close my eyes. Lucas’ black hair in the sunlight. The three of us laying under the great oak tree in the countryside. Never-ending summers.

More complicated than loneliness. I’m haunted.

“I thought something was wrong when you weren’t here on Wednesday.”

Remarks like quiet consolations. His auburn hair like a firefall when I run my fingers through it. When it spills over his back. Knees at my sides, he grinds against me slowly, and I press my mouth to his chest.

I kiss the spell under his ribs and I pray. He holds me tightly. It feels as if I’ve lost everything but I still want to believe in heaven.

He lights a cigarette. My night-time lover. I buy him expensive perfumes and glossy scarves. I send him fat bouquets of flowers with little fragranced pieces of pastel paper and sickly-sweet rhymes. I put golden hoops in his ears and feed him diced fruits wrapped in frosted wine. He’s all pampered in fake fur coats and rosy pouts.

“They said Lucky might not wake up.”

The knot in my throat. His nimble fingers on my jaw and then, their taste on my tongue.

“It’s alright, sugar,” he whispers, hand on my belt. “I’m here. Look how hard you are. Won’t you let me take care of you?”

I don’t think I know his real name. No, probably not. He blows smoke into my mouth. I feel the flutter of tears in my eyes. I don’t think I’d be happier waking up next to him day after day. I think I’d get worn out and he’d get dull.

He’s a tentative phantasm in the dark. I can tie my imagination to him. He can reign over my dreams. He can make my heart skip a beat or two. I can feel my own pulse when he squeezes my wrists and I’m grounded when I feel his teeth grazing my neck. I almost forget about Lucky and Lucas.

I wonder about the lies and the falsehoods and the simple chemistry of love when his fingers dance in circles on my skin. I wonder how the wise words of ancient philosophers can so easily be buried in neon lights.