A Last Late Chrysanthemum
He looks on his lover’s ceiling with eyes acquainted to brimming, because he is alone. The man he spends his nights with is long absent, away on a mission of mercy. After all, they shoot fishpigs, don’t they? And the blue and green slashes of color laboring across the door do nothing to assuage him. He does not care for water anymore, nor does he care for life. His body is draped in the sheets like a present unwrapped from a swaddle of silk, his limbs sprawled and heavy. He is thick with it. He’s been hit by a vehicle. It’s the way he feels, anyway.
And these gifts of his, they were never really coveted. Just borrowed.
As he lies there, on his beloved’s bed, he looks again to the colors on the door, the blue and green slashes, the circuit-like pattern in abstract lines running perpendicular to nature, a vent in mid-air, slapped like meat on the line of a meadow where it doesn’t belong. Like his makeup. His lover’s promises.
He is alone. He fingers the silver knife he keeps, with its long snaking blade and its black and white hilt. He remembers when his lover gave it. There had been no hint of a kiss, only a tentative locking of lips in the dark. They had exchanged things, since then. Wine glasses, body juices. Nights. Oh yes, every night since.
With a sigh, he fingers the long wave of metal until his fingers prick on the point. A line of blood pops on his palm, and he allows it to drip, to have the run of the place as he presses the knife’s tip further into the epidermis.
He is, as the humans would say, Prometheus in the shade of the rock, waiting. Gallifrey’s version is infinitely more accurate. After all, it was a sun that was stolen, and not by Prometheus. All of them are guilty, really.
The room is so still, with him gone. Needing new decoration, because the previous arrangement does not suit that man at all. He never even took off his ring for him. That damn silver band.
The decorative sheath at the back of his head clicks as he slides the comb-knife back into place. It hangs below his cerulean locks, so the skull cap of his official robes won’t pester it. Won’t allude. His eyes ache; they burn. They sting. Tears are running lines in his mascara.
If he loses, then he will finish the Job. For his lover.
It’s best left unrequited. And as for the Doctor, he will do for him. For that man, a last thrust in the dark. Oh yes. It will be redness and the little death for the Doctor tomorrow.