Damn Vicki.

Inspiring me to write.

“It’s hard,” he says.

I remember kissing him. Our lips would lock, and time would slow down. I remember kissing him with my eyes wide open; his eyes would shut tightly.

He says, “Sometimes.”

I remember looking at his eyelids. I remember the feeling of that small, tiny patch of forgotten beard after he would shave. I remember that his lips were heavy and hot.

I look at him. “What’s it like?” I would say.

He looks down. “It’s complete night, nothing but clubs and mosh pits.”

It’s what he says every time, and I believe him. It’s what he wants.

He looks up. His mouth opens, but before he can speak, the wind blows. The candle flame sputters and dies, leaving the room dark.

Sigh. I stand and flip a switch. The harsh light shines on an empty room. He never can stay long. He was the same way when he was alive.