Your absence is a grey-white field, vast with clinging nimbostratus clouds hulking the bulk of what would be an atmosphere. A pale man, candescent almost stands coiling over himself, his body a bulb in the cold, and too dumb to think, he touches himself to pretend you're there. Mud-caked and suffering the trauma of damaged capillaries, a pair of legs protrude from a small bank of soil and blood. The man gnaws at his limp phallus hanging loosely between both legs, like a dog worrying a bone just as skin breaks, gore flows as the man hurriedly suckles the last of your absence. You are being watched through tangerine shatters of evening light, thinking 'is this my life? Do I hold it with both hands?'
© Madison M. Taylor
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