The Head Is a Library

"It's past midnight, doll," Two tells One, but One can't hear Two. It's always been that way, and it will probably always be that way. That deafness, that ignorance, that ice-cold-red-hot stare – it could go on for days, until lightning consumes the Earth with its ton-watt blinks. With its blind-look-mom-no-eyes! light.

"We should go to bed, yeah? Beautiful, are you listening?" Two says, peering into One's eyes – or attempting to. One had already returned his attention to his book, and ultimately to the universe his blackhole of a wordcrowd transported him to.

"D'you want tea, my sweet? Or coffee? Or time alone, or a foot massage? I'll give you anything, ange, you name it, you know I'll hand it right to you, dearest," Two says, all loving and desperate and sacrificing and loving – all sorts of loving, masses and masses of it.

One looks up from his book only to find Two (the very ardent, the very wide-eyed, the very passionate-not-quite-so-perfect, the very second-to-just-one-and-that's-you-dear, the very one-who-loves-you Two) smiling down at him. Always this scene, it's always this scene – the accidental stupid-face-grin, the adoration painted clearly on every inch of skin, the affection the longing the tenderness the warmth the want.

"Come here, you," One says, "on my lap, love."

And Two doth sit on One's lap, right where he'd patted, just where he'd wanted. Two gently, with all the care and precision in the world, as if it were some established sport, wraps her arms around his neck. "Would you like anything else, darling?" Two treats One preciously, delicately, with the softest of voices and the most careful of breaths. One is made of feathers, beautiful bird.

One puts his lips on Two's ear. Everything smells beautiful-sweet-perfect-but-not-for-long-maybe. He traces little circles on the small of Two's back. One sighs. "Oh, love, I wish your affections went to someone worthy of you. Look at you, the science of you. How you render me speechless."

"Oh, sweet, those are all the wrong words, that is everything I feel for you!"

"Your passion for me," One says tenderly. "Impossible and complete. You're a dream, love."

"That's you, dear – you're the dream, please believe me."

One and Two sit for all the small eternities that a handful of seconds contain. "Love, leave me," One whispers into Two's ear, his funny breath moving the locks of her hair in the vicinity. "Let me be with my books, and you with better company. Away, love, don't look back, and don't come back to me, or let your mind wonder to memories of me. You shan't waste because I do."

Two looks at One, long and hard, and not in the least bit blank. There's a determination, a small kind of this-is-for-you-my-sweet. Two finds her feet back on the solid ground, away and away and away from One's heat.

"Oh, love," One says softly.

"Away, dearest," Two says, "I'll be away."

And away she brings herself, far, far off – away from One's walls, and ceilings, and floorboards, and grass, his everything, and everything else, and One himself. She continues to walk, and she might walk the whole Earth, should that day ever decide to come.

As for One, he reads his book from where he left off. He never quite put it down.

Curt: A Series of One-Liners

I. To do with the littlest, brightest, most faithful people I know

One day I'm going to get you the biggest things, everything (and so much more) you want.

II. To do with wealth

I shall write a thesis on the effects of wealth one day – how it only leads to mountains and mountains of debt, and an ocean of a hole where my money should be.

III. To do with a very specific man

I'd love you, 'til a blackhole swallows this Earth and whisks us into a time away when I don't know you (and, surely, even then will I love you, and wait ever so patiently for you), so stupidly and fearlessly and so specifically, and even vaguely – all the ways you want to be loved, I'll do it, and I'll do it all for you, and maybe just a little bit for how I want to see your eyes on me, on me, on me: your attention, completely arrested, by me, and me, and me, for just a fraction of a second – a nonblink of your time, all mine, kept safely away in my pocket until that blackhole comes and sucks me in (again like all times) – hopefully back to the time when I could love you, and you'd look at me longer than it takes to look away.

IV. To do with the way I love you

I love you: lengthily, viciously, obsessively, frighteningly, maddeningly, hyperbolically – and most of all, truly. Very, very truly. All the lengthy, vicious, obsessive, frightening, maddening, hyperbolic types of truth – I love you in those ways, and an unintelligible amount more.

V. To do with a very specific violation to a very specific one-liner

I love you, quite obviously more than a sentence can handle.

The Hunchback of Cork

The Sloucher and his Skeleton: A Series of Praises

He walks along the sidewalk with gold-rimmed sunglasses over his eyes. He isn't hiding, this man, no, dear me, no – the sunshine is quite bright, if honesty is to be exercised, and so, naturally, our Sloucher's first instinct is to protect his eyes. On another thought, the brightness of the sun would technically be his fault, if he were the type to lose his identity somehow, what with all those silly skins he hangs on his body. Never struck anyone as the kind to forget himself, but he does pick up habits sometimes, and saving the world could be a hobby he learned in another universe. Oh, these multiverses, he thinks, as he stalks on. He really ought to learn.

(And on another note, dear reader, between you and I – it is impossible to fathom how exactly the strangers that walked right by him never stopped to ogle, or how the robbers in the vicinity only eyed the wallet peeking out of his backpocket instead of his skeleton. It was one for the museum, our Sloucher's bone structure. They ought to sell those in stores, or invent a way to somehow bottle its effects of captivation on the average onlooker. It would cure various diseases, I think, maybe even stop wars.)

He walks on, and on, and on, with his shoulders slouching. He isn't really sure where he's going next, but he knows where his cigarette is destined to be – right on his lips where he could coax a drag out of it, and he does. It's therapeutic and it's also great company. Even the smoke makes sure to float to caress those famed cheekbones. And stray (others may even call them daring) strings of smoke find a way to pirouette on his esteemed jawline, too.

Waits a little bit to cross the road, and when he's certain no cars are coming, he carries on with his walking and his smoking and his being gorgeous. He wonders why the streets have been so deserted lately. What he thinks happened is that some important event is being broadcasted on TV – say, for example, an inauguration, or an important announcement, or a spelling bee, or a Christmas special of the Simpsons, maybe. He shoves his hands in his pockets, and he walks on.

He doesn't know that the rest of the world had been holding in its breath, for its most gorgeous creature was prowling the streets, and such allure can only be left unbothered sometimes. Had you been caught in his line of sight... doesn't matter if–if his eyes were chilling and cruel or gentle and welcoming, it would have stopped you dead. It would have stolen your breath and locked it away forever, and you'd be left cold on the ground. And he'd still be beautiful, all sorts of it. But you wouldn't see it anymore.

And so our Sloucher continues slouching, and all his bones crush into each other. It's the moststunningscene.

Oh, reader, dear me: our Sloucher is the most stunning scene.