#ALSO THE 'MEEK' MIRRORING FROM LAST NIGHT'S EXCERPT aHHHHH

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Harrison looks to his hands that now cradle Lonan’s skull against the cabinet. He feels strange, like an invisible man feeling matter for the first time. Water from the overflowing sink wets Lonan’s hair, drips down his chin, then off Harrison’s wrist—a sensation within a sensation within a sensation.

Like this, Lonan’s eyes raw as sockeye salmon and wide as plates, Harrison understands that just like Cael, Lonan is so young and so hurt. His stare, usually an abundant reel of pacific, is now hollow like a walnut dislodged of its fruit. His bones are fawny, face meek as a lamb’s under the polite knife of slaughter. He’s more motherless than Harrison’s even considered himself. The woman who raised him dead in the Midwest, the other who created him unwilling to remember his middle name. How unfair this all is, these wounded boys.

Now, suffering is a part of Lonan’s serenest face—stitched like gold into his eyebrows, twitching his lip. Tufts of his hacked hair poke into Harrison’s palm, and others are too short to reach. Harrison imagines how it got like that—truly imagines. Hands gripping strands by the root. A rusted pair of scissors, or maybe a knife, biting into the ends. How did Lonan feel, then? What words did he speak, and did he speak them to God? Cael had said something to Harrison in that dank church. My beloved is mine, and I am his; he grazes among the lilies. Somehow, somewhere, Harrison yearns for a pasture to love someone in.

I'm sorry but WHAT in the world IS THIS

From Feeding Habits (patched together from 2020-2022)