Zachary Beven

Your house party. I was acting out, annoyed at my own lack of progression, and at you (for moving without me, for remaining friends with those dickheads from school). I was whispering into ears and falling over furniture until I stumbled into a room on the cusp of the sublime. A frieze of cherubs looked down from the ceiling, as if anointing the pulsing bodies. A holy room, I thought, an equaliser. We melted into each other’s loose limbs and curved spines and heavy eyelids. A wave of relief washed over me, because in the dark, I wasn’t labelled or defined. I was just another body.