We slept last night, I was inside of you looking for shelter like a fleeing slave. I found your unbiased embrace a sanctuary for my wounds, and my torn shoulders left a tapestry of blood on your bed sheets. But when you sat upright and I stared through your marbled gaze to the mirror behind, the reflections of your other lovers crawled back, whispering like Man Ray photographs. My soft skin withered away leaving my body throbbing, as the hand of a wilting painter would, trickling milk down a canvas face. Breathy hands of an evening dance around your figure, their primitive senses seized by the glow that keeps your lust lit. You’re inhaling them now as if they were the very thing that wounded me in the first place.
Kellan is in college, and doesn't want to leave the comforting purlieus of the puddles of artistic self-infringement. Also, he wants, as he put it once, "nothing to do with a soul, I think..."