I like the fact that she cared. The way her face lit up at the slightest hint. I was impatient. She was fierce. Our love was a hot molten mess. And we licked it right off. Ate each other out. Bit off each other and burnt through the nights. And healed through gentle peppery morning kisses. Peppermint.
Enough has been written about what she made me feel, enough to make me fall in love again. And perhaps remember what made us fall out. It still wrings me inside, twists and throws me against the walls of my own words. Emotional masturbation, as Nin Andrews puts it.
Bright eyes, and brown. Alight with possibilities. Smouldering. Firestorms in the night. Wildfire that brings the forest down. Gentle pampering love. Softness of a pillow. Tenderness of a mother. Sheer strength. Bright eyes, and powerful. Bright eyes I died for, over and over again.
Lips sweeter than honey. Tongue up for adventures, sharp as a dagger.
I liked her smell. Always the summer spice. Always the familiar wetness. There was an allowance of warmth. Imagine a ginger tea laced with lemon. Imagine a stark mojito in sunny April. A sticky caramel toffee to suck on in November as you walk about the town. Or perhaps, just a sucker punch right in your face to knock you out.
She was not a morning person. It is hilarious and adorable how my general enthusiasm at the crack of dawn was tolerated and, at times, reciprocated.
We pieced each other together in a meticulous collage. Making each other, and undoing and perhaps setting a part of us alight, ashes buried by the sea. We came in incomplete and diseased, we left incomplete and healed.
I said I loved her. I meant it. I didn’t quite know what it meant.
Hers was a firm commanding hold. A tight squeeze. I could not escape it, not that I ever wanted to. She brought me down from the skies and laid me flat on the ground to tease, had me for dinner and dessert and lapped up the bits later. I returned the favour. We crashed like waves against each other, murderously sensual and intoxicating. Soaked, wet and shivering.
She lashed out. Once and many times. I let go. Without realising I was lashing out too. Do we grow through realisations?
Our first time. It was cold. She sucked on my lips all night long.
She is not an easy woman. I am not an easy man. Where have I heard that before?
I have been asked about my motivation to write what I write, how personal and evocative my text can get. Precisely the reason. It is wonderful how two people can make each other feel. Love is to be celebrated. Our bodies and minds is all we have to express. And our words, whispered and written.
“He had a girlfriend, but she wasn’t really his girlfriend, he wasn’t even too clear about it himself. He always asked me how I was doing and if I was happy. In some of our last conversations, he wanted to talk about aliens and global conspiracies. He sent me long, argumentative emails, with lots of links to videos and shows that prove what’s really going on and how the end of the world is imminent. It seems it all starts with the single global language and religion, the unification of political systems, obviously followed by the alien invasion and Earth’s destruction. It became increasingly difficult for me to communicate with him, to explain that, even if he were right, I couldn’t care less either way. To tell him my questions and reflections are far more terrestrial. Like, say, what we would’ve been like together, or what his skin tasted like after sex.” [Berlin ArtParasites]