Two hours to live again.
Two hours to die again.
Drop by drop.
6 AM .
When the first rays of the sun brush me, I drag myself up from the slab of cold stone I was laying on, hoping somehow to melt through it to join him underground. It didn't work of course. It never does.
The sun is hurting my eyes. I hate him. Die, sun. I curse you.
I want the moon to be back. I want her full, above me, because it means the night hasn't ended yet, because it means the two hours...
Two hours. Two hours of bliss, for 364 days and 22 hours of hell.
I'll see you next year, Heero, love. But it's so far away.
I know, I know. I only live for those two hours. If I didn't have them, if I thought you weren't there anymore, if I believed there was nothing after and you had just... been erased... I'd have killed myself long ago... even by holding my own breath if our friends had taken away from me every other way. Knowing that you're still there somehow is the only thing that keeps me going. But...
But now, faced with the unavoidable wait, I can't help but feel crushed under the weight. It's so long, so hard, so cold to live all year without you, love, for two hours of satiating my flesh in your embrace.
I am not saying that I don't want to anymore, that I don't want to wait for you... Even if I had two minutes with you every twenty years, I'd still wait for you. Long for you, desire you, dream of you. I love you, Heero.
I miss you so much already. It's always sharper right away after you've left me again to slide back in your tomb. It will be weeks before the sharpest edge fades a little and I can breathe again, but even then, I won't be free of the emptiness. I only feel alive when I'm with you, my love.
And you're dead. Heh. But then we always knew I was fucked up, didn't we?
I don't know how long it will be before I follow you. Not too long, I think. I miss your embraces, but at least I get to have them... two hours a year. But your simple presence behind me, your smirks, your shy smiles, your comments to the movies I force you to watch, your annoyed glares when I track mud inside the house, your failed attempts at cooking for me, the way your mind would meet mine over a mission plan or a chess board or even something as simple as tennis, matching, knowing mine, your so tender hands taking mine in between yours, and the way you'd stare at our rings, glinting side by side...
I don't track mud inside the house anymore. I don't play chess either. I've grown tired of playing again those games I played against you. Even against your memory, I still lose every time.
That may be because every time, I can't help but play the moves I played then, as if doing anything else was sacrilegious to your memory.
I miss your love surrounding me, and while those two hours of sharing our bodies and hearts give me sustenance for the rest of the year, I miss your mind. I miss your voice. I miss the way you inspired me. I miss your calmness to counter my agitation, miss your method opposing my irrationality; I even miss us butting heads over silly matters like the order in which we had to wash the dishes, or the color of our furniture.
Not everything we shared was sexual, and while I need making love with you like I need breathing, it doesn't mean that I need the rest of you any less.
As I walk to the iron gates that separates the place my love lies from the rest of the world, that world I have to walk alone, I already know that this year, the void threatening to devour me won't be so easy to keep at bay.
Already my resolve is weakening.
Maybe next year I'll give you more than two inches of hair and a few drops of blood.
Maybe next year, you'll take me under with you.
I want to sleep in your arms again.