[Site of Mourning]

Beyond its rubbery exterior and the hardened veins hidden by cakey blush, his cheek has a life all its own, with the force of its verve resting at the epicenter of the mole. A perfect brown sphere–hairless– able to tell the time of day with its own shadow remarkably even on an overcast Wednesday.

Before the morning of one Hump Day, hours before the sky would surprise us with its rolling gray fists, he slept, the entirety of his head turned towards mine on a shared pee-stained pillow and his expression curtained by matted auburn locks–boring brown at the roots. I could leave–windless and quiet–with spiriting being my newly acquired skill. Or I could thrill myself–visually with the sight of his blood on his smooth back. It would be quick and painless for the pair of them. I did no such thing. Because greedy for the spotlight, he stands guard, cushioned within his fabric-creased bedding. Shining and dripping from his host's inner workings and angry and red and warning me against mourning dreams. He raised tall and embraced the upward ON of the corner's lamp in swells and twitches gifted by his host's cheek. I saw myself blink in his face.

His beauty is still there and marking its place on the face of the deceased, refusing sleep. He sees no need for sparkling new pennies over his host's eyes.