Snarling at the Sky

A dark room that smells of must.
A pair of tight, expensive jeans. They hang straight and beautiful off the wasted legs that they enshrine.
Banded underwear. The skin is soft there, and yet the muscle underneath is firm and unyielding. It smells good - masculine and pure. It hints of more to come. Trace the contours of the body, to the hip bones. Perfection.
A pool of water that has been allowed to stand for several days. The sun has touched it, but the ground is saturated and the water has collected in an incline. It is brackish. There are dragonflies. It will be several days before it fully evaporates, but the clouds on the horizon suggest that it will not get the opportunity. It is starting to let off an unpleasant smell.
A god that encircles the earth and saves mortals with his innocent arms. He is not beautiful. His eyes are a bloody mess - he was blinded, and recently. Looking at him is horrifying, and nobody believes the words that spill from his lips, words of love and adoration. By the time that they listen, it will be too late. The worst part is, they will be unable to bring him back to life. Those innocent arms will still and fall.
A cat on a fence. It is clearly distressed, and yet intent in visage. It stares into a house, at a blue couch coated in cat hair. The tail lashes back and forth. Every hair is on end, and yet the cat does not betray another movement. Absolute poise, absolute stillness, but for that lashing tail. The fence is tall and green. The house is in the shade of a larger house. The couch is occupied.
A pair of hands on the back of a neck. The neck is hairless, but the hands have a smattering of light hair at the knuckles. The hair on the head is black and thick. The hands tense, to pull the head down, perhaps for a kiss. Yes, for a kiss. The hands fall to the shoulders as the lips interlock. A slight shiver runs down the spine. There is a feel in the air - a release, perhaps...perhaps something more, something sadder.
An abandoned cup of tea on a shelf. The tea has long since grown cold. There are dark patches in the water, and there is no steam. The tea sits in a saucer that is coated in biscuit crumbs. The shelf has a book on it. The title is not visible, but the book is bound in red leather. There is a sense of urgency.
Your eyes, looking back at you in the mirror. There aren't any words for this.
A figure, bent by rain, shrouded in the darkness, snarling at the sky.