Ode to my lover
He’s in profound concentration now, with the arms let loose and the hands firm, the jaw is locked, the mind is unaware of the world without. His nose is just as charming as the eyes and the lips; he doesn’t know that.
There are the immediate features about him that anyone can notice and then there are the parts that one needs to be lucky enough to be invited to see. He’s dazzling when he’s speaking, mesmerising when he’s listening. When he’s listening to me it’s as if he absorbs the words rather than just hear them. His voice is the chill on my spine when there’s a thoughtful score playing. It’s the electric shock when I’m mere inches from a desire. His voice somehow instigates what’s best in one’s mind. There’s a twinkle in the eyes of the people listening. He’s admirable and fierce and passionate, but I guarantee, there’s much more to him than toughness.
If one’s lucky enough to undress him, one should pay attention to his ass. Forget about the crotch and everything in there for now. There’s so much more skin and muscles to behold and squeeze. His legs and his ass have a certain definition, a mixture of hardness and softness that are worthy of attention for long minutes, maybe hours. Get him to talk and observe his diaphragm moving, notice his Adam’s apple going up and down. I massage his feet because I want an excuse to be constantly touching his skin. I stop to kiss his ankle and feel each hair of his legs. How can I love anyone more than I ever loved him?
Each time he left, and it could be anywhere, crossing the street or getting inside the car or going to a different direction in general, I felt a little bit of me crumble. Something about him made me feel at ease, but something about him also made me want to protect him against myself. I opened up every secret and every fear. He could have left in a way that would destroy me completely. When feelings clash with reason everything is so much more complicated. He should have destroyed me then.
I always feared the ending, I treated each time I saw his face as if it was the last. He smiled, said it would be all right, we would see each other again. I rest my cheek on his knee and I kiss his thighs, I grab them and I caress them repeatedly, wondering if this will be my last chance. He asked me why I was I crying. He asked me if I was feeling well. I stopped answering any questions he asked. Once upon a time, every issue could be transformed into a narrative and we would talk for hours until everything was cleared out. It’s not his fault. It’s not my fault.
Anyone can have sex. Reproducing moments of intimacy is almost easy, but intimacy itself is hard. It has to be developed and we’re all afraid of commitment. I woke up every day for the last years choosing him. I woke up and the image of that bright face brought a smile to my face, as well as tears. No price was too high. I choose him and whenever I can I come back for that which I can’t get anywhere else. I watch his shoulders and his back whenever we’re in the same room, in the mirror if I must. I hug him from behind and rest my face on those upper body muscles. I start crying. I know this is the last time. I fear I will become a ghost eventually. He tells me the future is uncertain. If one is lucky enough, one will never have to say goodbye to him.
What happened first, did I left or did he shut the door?
