a prince and two paupers

We were as beggars or tramps before him. Coats threadbare and souls gushing, ever-ready to perform any humiliating feat to catch his eye and induce the fluttering thrill brought only by gaining his fleeting attention. He the pompous indifferent aristocrat, such heavy velvet royalty to us. We played Anais and Henry, devoted to the untouchable, chill of our June. He simultaneously inspired and tormented us. It was intoxication, wasn’t it? We would give up everything for a glimpse, a sidelong look at his riches and loveliness. And then it would fall, like the snow, or be given, like a gift: he’d lower his eyes to us, those honey lids, heavy-drowsy. In turn, it seemed, one then the other, he’d flatter us with some affection. Turn us on one another, remind us that ours was a struggle. No, ours was a war. It was as if he had to remind us that only one of us could hold him. That only one side could triumph. And we both had colored flags to plant in the soil, and separate political agendas. Do you remember? Those times he’d give us everything? Unexpectedly. His focus, his kisses, his cock. We’d spend our savings, all that we had hoarded in the long-cold months, we’d forget that we had to eat for the rest of the summer and blow our wad on one night, trying, aching, working to thrill him. No thought of the future. Pawning all precious things to keep up the momentum. All the ardour and adoration we could summon to keep ourselves there, like amber-trapped mosquitoes in the liquid gold of that gaze. But it was not made to last. Not for either us. We’d run back to one another like injured children, lamenting the cruelty of our heartless guardian. Licking one another’s wounds. Knowing that his attention was something to get free of, like an addiction, we’d plan to stop. You claimed that it was us not him, but I wouldn’t hear you. We suffered the lack, you said, we were diseased, greedy beasts wanting to cage him. You knew somehow that it was our own perversion. But even your wisdom seemed to elude you, your resolve eroded with the potency of our competition.When the chance came we never failed to take it. The pain was as unforgettable as the bliss. The licking of one another’s wounds, a crystalline comfort too attractive to forgo. When he was ours, those brief moments, we were elated, wanted to climb the top of the garbage-dump turned ski hill in this dingy town and scream out. Jump to our deaths, cut out our hearts, anything to try to articulate the profound sweetness of it. We could not get free of his nets, struggling as we did to cut them, using teeth and daggers. But they, invisible, powerful, they seemed to magically regenerate themselves with the struggle. Now, I can say that I believe that he was unaware of the power he held over us. Now that he is the point at which our two different lines converge, I wonder if you still feel as I do, the attraction/repulsion sensation he creates. While I love him like my own brother, now that the fire has diminished and distance and life have severed our ties. I still despise his condescension and his easy success. His life always charmed, simple, free. Unconnected from certain depths of misery and struggle that you and I know so well. I wonder if it is like this for you, or if you still await the limited affection like a dog. We were beggars in those days, starved canines. I am not ashamed of it, it was a moment in history, the emotions of that time are still impressed on my soul and I can recapture them with only a moment’s backtrack into memory. I know what drove us to it. I wonder how it can all be so clear, so ready. His distance made him so desirable but our closeness made things intolerable, impossible. You were the one who struck me with the ax, the wound that still gushes as if it were inflicted a minute before, rather than a decade. You, my brother-beggar, fellow dog, my partner in desire are the one I regret losing. Our object is just an object now he is beautiful and elusive but he is, after all, just a man. Somehow smaller and less polished ten years later. Things seem clear now. He was no prince, god, angel, just a distracted, emotionally withdrawn lover. Just a selfish painter trying to suck inspiration from our hollows. And since I am being honest and feeling such brilliant clarity, I have to wonder if we used him to torture one another. If he was a distraction. A patsy. If our objectification of him became the focus because we were terrified of the potential we had to damage one another.