polyrhythm [3/100]
polyrhythm
three. blindfolds
He doesn't see. One time they just are, and no time tells them that, and they couldn't mark it if they wanted to, could, anything, really -
Hankyung's not blind, but he might as well be. They all should be, and then at least the cloak of deception would be jerked off. Hide - there's nothing to hide - no people to deceive - and yet they shrink from the truth, and leave the shrivelled break between eyes and mind decorously covered.
That, and the soul masked by an unthinking mind, bare cords of motion curled on the nothingness.
Throw the scraps away, the creator wishes -
But he sees death in that sight of an unrestrained heart.
There was nothing there, and he threw empty shells in, but, faced with the prospect of completing his creation, he hesitates. A soul - thoughts, and the fine tremor of emotion - well, what could they do with those? Imitate gods, perhaps. But it's
Broken.
Hankyung's mouth is set in a smile, but one without connotation. It's only a upturn of his perfectly shaped mouth, no feeling. It's beautiful, but without emotion - unnatural, horrid, and he's watched -
All they know is the bend of flesh, the soft yield of skin against skin. They've learned that, but are blind to all else - he's kissing Yesung - wrists crossing wrists - lips light - their bones pressing against each other - soft - but if it weren't
Would they know?
Aware of nothing, they at least execute intercourse of a torrid appearance, but the existence of knowledge is as rote memorization, nothing of thought or analysis.
They're kissing.
"Nice," Yesung whispers, his fingers falling short even around Hankyung's frail wrists. They're premade words, generic replies with nothing of intelligence.
They're jerking off, Hankyung's hands graceful, bent around his cock.
He's stretched, and it's either pain or pleasure, but he makes no sound, and even the original feeling is debated. There's a cock inside him, yet his mouth is set in the same blank smile. They're children's dolls, playing at understanding the arts of flesh, though blind to such knowledge.
There's folds of cloth soft against their eyes, tightly wound about their souls. They beat, quick against the grooves of restriction.
"I..." Hankyung whispers, but sound can't be measured when there's hardly anything to compare it to. They're blind to contrast, to time, to reality.
But there might be some hope yet, and to that end.
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