At four in the morning, every city is the same. Every street looks like every other street I've seen in my life. The lights glow the same against the night sky, against the clouds, against the rain, against the fog, against the snow. The wind sounds the same against the buildings. The bums look the same, smell the same, ask the same questions, beg for the same mercy. Just something to get them through the night. Something to take away the chill. The money I press into their palms is the same. Small, round, hard, warm from being in my pocket.
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At four in the morning, you feel the same. You give, you bend yourself to fit around me, to fit into all the spaces I've carved out for you. The sheets are white in every hotel room, in every cheap motel we've ventured into, your skin looks the same against the stark white sheets. You're soft in every city, warm in every city, desperate in every city. I've fucked you five ways from Sunday in over two hundred different cities and you're still the same.
At four in the morning, the thoughts in my mind mirror every single thought I've had at other four in the mornings. When you run your finger from my throat to my navel, I think how easily I could break your finger, how easily I could ruin everything you've worked so hard for. With one quick flick of my wrist, I could break every bone in your hand. And when your finger drags over my ribcage, I shiver the same and take back every ill thought toward you. Because at four in the morning, my desperation is the same. It never changes. I need you like I need my next breath. I need four in the morning, cold rooms, white sheets, fog and wind and snow and rain; I need your fingers on my skin, I need my anger toward you and toward myself and I need the forgiveness of your body.
At four in the morning, living looks the same as dying.
"When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth." - Kurt Vonnegut