Jul 2014
There was the way he touched me: his hands, tender and beaten from the oh so many bar fights, would glide across the goose bumps of my spine, warming my blood; his breath would blow towards my naked neck, coming in as empty waves that cooled the third degree burns his whispers left; the surface of his lips, dry from the lack of chap stick and sore from consistently shaping the sounds of his voice, would barely brush my stomach, only meeting with the miniscule blonde hairs that tried to hide my sacred body.
I was afraid of him though. I was afraid of the way he moved, suddenly and without caution, his legs and arms barely keeping up with the shock of his movements. Sometimes in the morning, before stumbling out from his side of the bed, he would grab my limp body and embrace my chest, pressing my ******* against the bottom of his belly, making my body absorb the heat waves of his own that had slept underneath his skin all night long.
Slowly, as the afternoons grew longer and the mornings grew shorter, our bodies no longer came into contact. Not even our voices collided anymore during pathetic wasted nights when we drank the same amount of wine as the amount of our tears. We were drunk by 8 pm. Eventually, all we did was lean across balcony railings, facing each other, not knowing anymore how to communicate what we so deeply wanted. I wanted to hold him. He wanted to leave me. And only one night later he did.
He left the night of my birthday; I was long broken by then: my blood stained with alcohol, my heart throbbing between my ribcage, my eyes begging for guidance. As I fell through the front door of his apartment, struggling to hold on to his sleeve, I smelt of ***** and ***. He laid me one the covers of his bed, the ones we bought together the day I moved in, and lightly ran his fingertips down my feet, removing my only Prada heels. Through the dim light, I stared down into his starry eyes, trying to read the words strung together in his mind.
I failed expectedly; and so, because *** was the only remainder of our relationship, I softly sang into his ear:
I would swim the seas a thousand times
for the constellations of your skin
to brush against the earth of mine
And so that night, he breathed heavily into the scars across my neck, his moans erupting like sudden volcanoes from the bottom of his throat, destroying the empty sound that had been planted in his room since the first time I cried into his sheets. And when he was done, he tiptoed into the bathroom while I remained numb and motionless. He came back only twenty minutes later, silently perched against my right shoulder, delicately removed the greasy hair from my face, and faintly murmured: “I’m leaving you”.
I was afraid of him though. I was afraid of the way he moved, suddenly and without caution, his legs and arms barely keeping up with the shock of his movements. Sometimes in the morning, before stumbling out from his side of the bed, he would grab my limp body and embrace my chest, pressing my ******* against the bottom of his belly, making my body absorb the heat waves of his own that had slept underneath his skin all night long.
Slowly, as the afternoons grew longer and the mornings grew shorter, our bodies no longer came into contact. Not even our voices collided anymore during pathetic wasted nights when we drank the same amount of wine as the amount of our tears. We were drunk by 8 pm. Eventually, all we did was lean across balcony railings, facing each other, not knowing anymore how to communicate what we so deeply wanted. I wanted to hold him. He wanted to leave me. And only one night later he did.
He left the night of my birthday; I was long broken by then: my blood stained with alcohol, my heart throbbing between my ribcage, my eyes begging for guidance. As I fell through the front door of his apartment, struggling to hold on to his sleeve, I smelt of ***** and ***. He laid me one the covers of his bed, the ones we bought together the day I moved in, and lightly ran his fingertips down my feet, removing my only Prada heels. Through the dim light, I stared down into his starry eyes, trying to read the words strung together in his mind.
I failed expectedly; and so, because *** was the only remainder of our relationship, I softly sang into his ear:
I would swim the seas a thousand times
for the constellations of your skin
to brush against the earth of mine
And so that night, he breathed heavily into the scars across my neck, his moans erupting like sudden volcanoes from the bottom of his throat, destroying the empty sound that had been planted in his room since the first time I cried into his sheets. And when he was done, he tiptoed into the bathroom while I remained numb and motionless. He came back only twenty minutes later, silently perched against my right shoulder, delicately removed the greasy hair from my face, and faintly murmured: “I’m leaving you”.
