I am not hungry, and this feels wrong. It is Ramadan, the holy month of fasting which begins with the moon bent over, showing only curve. My tongue is grey with wanting, the way it used to be when I was a boy and went without taste. It’s hard to explain how much it excited my body. We’d wake at an illicit hour eyes red, breath blue, and troop to the kitchen for a pre-dawn meal of prayer crackling out the radio and cornflakes to crunch on, or buttery eggs to swallow. Run through the whole summer, the oppressive heat, playing cricket, childish acrobatics, falling into creeks, conquering trees, trying to eat all the fuck yous and cunts and cocks that normally erupted out our mouths. No swearing, no drop of moisture to pass the lips, no body to lust after, no hardness to master except this hunger, this need, this careful religious observation of succulence passing into other boys, their sisters, our friends. The sweating bottle kissing their teeth, their neck curving up, the light on their skin, cheeks drawn in & in. Sucking, my god, water. Watching the moon fatten at night, as if feasting on us.
It is Ramadan, the holy month of fasting, and I feel right. It begins with bending over a man until he’s only curve, and loving his everything. My tongue is grey with wanting, the way it’s always been. It’s hard to explain how my body excites to touch. We wake at a witching hour, flushed with the warmth of shared breath, and saunter into tomorrow, wet with fullness. Nowhere to run, we linger in now, in cunts and cocks painting our mouths, the heat of opening, a surrendering yes five times a day in a darkened room guessing the direction toward satisfaction. I am tired of being careful, I am over observation, I want to master your hardness and mine. Your pliant flesh, our friend, their sister. Kissing the sweating bottle curving up, light on skins, cheeks drawn in & in. Sucking, my god, us. The moon wanes, as I fatten beneath it, an undone famine, a feast not to be wasted.
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