his name is your prayer
I. “Adam,” he says hesitant, his voice catching. His fingertips grasp your elbow, trying not to shake, not to smile. He fails his eyes crinkles and his cheeks dimple. He says your name like a secret, like it’s something precious, you think of it under the covers as his fingers interlace with yours. As the darkness surrounds your heads, breaths damp across the pillow.
II. “Adam,” he screams, a plate crashes against the wall. You try to fend him off, but he won’t listen, his face is red and no air enters his lungs. His cheeks glisten with his tears and your hands itch with the need to brush them away, to promise something. Promise what; you don’t know. You take a step forward and he takes a step back. You falter; and he wraps his arms around himself. You strangely think of the honey of his tongue, of the heart under your fingertips, of the laughter ringing in your ears. Your head is empty.
III. “Adam,” he whispers, and it’s broken, a hoarse lodge in his throat and you can’t do anything. You stare at him and he doesn’t blink. You look at his chapped lips and a fire burns in your stomach, consuming your selfishness; your stupidity; your reasoning. When your kiss him his hands tentatively touch your cheek as though you are something precious, and a moan catches in your throat. He understands, and he nods. You smile at him, he keeps on nodding. You wipe his tears and you whisper his name.
