#immoraltality

↳ andrew minyard, the goalie with more than just tricks up his sleeves

The image that I see of him when I close my eyes is always one of him looking out, head tilted slightly to the side, allowing shadows to rest where only they would be comfortable in the sharp edges of his form. He was always a passive being, but I could tell that he hid intangible desires underneath the book pages he folded at the corners and in the reflections that the movies cast on the pupils of his eyes, stowed away as a reminder of what he thought he would never have. It’s an easy feat to contemplate his essence as one of sadness when looking back, but darkness is a wonderful instigator of the imagination. In reality he was regal, and he let me stay in the protective ease of his presence when I needed something solid to convince me that I too was a corporeal thing. Sometimes we would fade with the sky as it melted into dusk and twilight and nothing. Some would say that that was just another trick of his business, of the cold manipulation he wrapped around people so tight they could rarely get out without leaving a part of themselves behind with him, if they ever succeeded at all. I think that these people misunderstand, that they’re blinded by the material things he takes, so they can’t see what he can’t have but desperately wants. He takes so much from the world, because the world has already taken so much from him. But I don’t remember him for the things that he took. I remember him for the way he sometimes forgot that he was holding a cigarette between his fingers, and the way that he would look down at it, surprised, when a layer of ash dropped from its end. I remember him for the way he would absentmindedly twirl the thick silver ring around his index finger with his thumb and pinky, and the way that he sometimes lingered in the doorways of his lavish guest rooms—perpetually devoid of guests. I remember him for the way that he tried to suppress rare smiles for a coveted lover, even when we were drenched in solitude. The image that I see of him when I close my eyes is bittersweet in retrospect, but perhaps that is because all of his sharp edges really can only sustain shadows.