What next, she asked, knowing that I had no answer that I wished to give. I did not wish to make that thing real. What next, she asked again, pushing me into a corner of admission and submission. There is no next step, physically. We do what we have always done. Share secrets, share thoughts, try and exhaust ourselves on each other, hoping that one day the rough waves of passion will erode down the solidity of ourselves into grains of sand to be washed away.
This is the next step. Each post, each word I share, each thought and emotion laid bare. I will empty my soul into ink, into the void of the internet, pour out every drop of myself until I have nothing left to give, till I bore you and you see me laid out skinned and empty as nothingness. I want you to consume all of me, every scrap of muscle, every spark of thought, it is yours, it is yours to do with as you will. When I am finally spent, when I am bloodless, and without strength or meaning, you may discard me on the winds. I will dissolve into the air and be gone.
I will be dead in thirty years and all I wish is to leave a legacy, to be a page in history, something beyond my mortal corpus. Such a remembrance to be consumed by your mind, to be in your heart always, affecting your choices, your decisions, to be in your bed and your work. To be in every chakra and every book. Take me, take all that is mine, all that I have been and make it one with you. I will entwine myself about your very nerves so that each thing touched is an embrace, each morsel consumed is a meal shared, each breath is my sweetest kiss.
This is my next step. And every step. I only have so many memories to share, such paucity of years, such naivity of experience. Oh, to have lived a thousand years and have wonders to tell of. Alas, one day I will have but the substance of memory and dreams. Then there are no more steps. No more road to travel. Until then, all I may do is give myself to you, utterly and with my own consent.
Toil.
So ends the second.
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