Song of the Cicadas
I remember the first meeting of our eyes, that prolonged awkward gaze burning from time immemorial. The electric red of your orbital vision and shimmering gossamer wings. You were every where, and there was only me, but he was there also.
The buzzing was delicious, my body delicate with the sensual longing of home. But I was not home; indeed, far from the nostalgia of that familiar place. I was caught here in this manic utopia, here where there were only hips and thighs and thoraxes mingling longingly against each other. We thought we might have found that elusive unspeakable kind of love, when in reality, the only thing we’d discovered was how to thrash about senselessly in the meadows with the cicadas.
We felt their hollow bodies pressing, crumbling beneath us as we groped awkwardly and held onto each other. They groped awkwardly too, empty shells clinging to our bodies like massive felled trees. None of us stood a chance, senseless fucking as you stumbled away like six-legged drunkards attempting to save yourselves from the train wreck of our supple young bodies. We carried on carelessly, bulldozing through your existence and ending it in mere moments.
Greedily we took each other in, we took you in. All of us rolling together (against your will) making love in the thicket. Yours was the sacrifice, and so I shall always remember this as the summer of our seventeen year cicada.
