Where We Become Your mouth finds mine, and the self— that old defended country— opens a border. I want you. Your hands draw me nearer. Spit at the corner of your mouth. Your cock, hard and undeniable: matter refusing abstraction. I lick you— and for a moment knowledge abandons its distance. There is no purity here, only the difficult fact of two men ceasing to pretend they are sufficient unto themselves. Afterward, cum cooling, the room grows quiet. Your forehead rests against mine. The distance remains. It must. You are still other, still unknowable— but the space between us is no longer empty. And perhaps intimacy requires nothing grander: to be seen without disguise, to touch what one cannot possess, to remain. The night exhausts its language. My mouth remembers yours. And between two separate lives, one word remains: stay.