His body the landscape in my mind’s eye lean like a filament, white matted by a dark smatter of black wire. My whole heart cupped in his hand, kissed by his pale talking mouth taut like a bow string. Eyes smoke green in fortress September light raging around and then following like a lost pup. Sugar grin to flash me blind. The sweep of his hand like a minute across the face of the plastic clock safeguarding our seconds. His body hard like rubber cement flexing. Ball of fist teeth bared now white, what have I done, put a scar on somebody else. He laughs at all my dirty jokes and becomes a woman in the bed. He floats like fire through my empty hours and fills me during the in-between with something like a sticky ball of fear and hope, as light as concrete, stabbing and anchoring me, softening all my hard edges and rough patches. Without him the vast of nothing, the humdrum of wasted death. His smile, like his skin in summer, is golden.
Michael Takeda is a writer of speculative fiction. He has also worked as a translator and teacher of English and Italian language and cinema, had a brief stint as a music reviewer for local newspaper “PDXS”, completed three college degrees (so far), and has published various novels and other fictions. His most recent project is Brave Boy World: A Transman Anthology. He currently lives in Worcester, Massachusetts where he serves as Editor-in-Chief of Pink Narcissus Press.