Added on by Steven Casale.

In the dark you have few numbers.

Numbers that repeat in your head because they are from the real, the outside. And the ones that orchestrate without order; they hang like angel threads at the top of your eyes. Creating special sequences that only you can see.

In the dark, he sleeps in a small blue room. Above his bed: a poster of a cantaloupe-cratered moon. Above him, too: an image of the moon landing. In the sky floating: a spaceship like a still object motionless in an ocean blue puddle.

The plastic absurdity of an astronaut and the settled nothingness of the moonface.

He says he likes outer space. July 20, 1969, I think.

It is ridiculous to be a knight in a place so hidden, like an astronaut, but instead of a bronze mask, an oxygen tank wth numbers all over it. Third floor up, in the back of the building, and with the sky on its back. Next to a breathing jungle that rests atop cheap ceramic tiling.

I am forgetting myself. Who I am on tile floors and under moonthings, and next to beautiful things, I become who I was always. Startles me.

I touch him.

He is beautiful. Brown eyes like waterbodies. He is quiet. He smells like himself. His eyes are sadness mixed with boundlessness, anchored in a moon place without time.

I hover into him, and beside him. But not hovering at all. This was not the reason I came here. Instead, I find myself again, after a day and two warm showers, with arms shaped like a cradle.

We ate steak and avocados. I drank white wine. I watched him sip ice soaked in chili powder and tamarind juice and I watched him sip beer.

Under the moon, I feel like an alphabet. Ready for language but I cannot speak. Words sit at the back part of me, small glaciers melting at my tonguebase. I think of human papillae and then I am reminded, open my eyes, touch the body.

The hair and the stature, the firm agility of it. The method with which his beard hair curls into the lip crevices. He stretches awake like a willing cat in front of a golden window. Wanders next to me like a frond of some plant, a clandestine species. As easy, though, as one of the plants on the other side of the living room window that stare forever up at a humming Mexican sky.

A morning moon framed by the concrete white edges of a building. Because, this in an other thing, I am free of consequences. I can love like a visitor.

And so, I am inside him. Then, I am waking up.