I know you’ve been thinking ‘bout me,
He echoed an old friend of mine, a young man who caught my heart but slipped away into homosexuality. I will never know if my friend loved me beyond our friendship - it gratified me to imagine sunlit picnics in fields of grass, just him and I huddled close, smiles never leaving our faces. His hair sort of fell the same way and his features were a slightly rearranged version of one of the first boys that stole my heart. He was handsome enough.
And quite frankly, I was in a state of complete heartbreak and despair - just wanted to escape without completely ending the show, blip of the remote, removing all future events. It was just me and him, sweating, in the fading light of the evening, and it was all I could grasp onto in nights of silence and swollen worry. His face over mine, focused, yet calm. Not his first rodeo. And I could tell.
Tears pooled at the edges of my eyes as I sat on the edge of my bed, the same mattress, different sheets, different room, different building, two years away from the faded negatives of his skin and his lips and his eyes. Never to be seen again. My heart would stop cold when we’d pass my old town, the tangle of suburban houses quietly calling my name. Would he sit at the kitchen table with his family, spooning a bowl of cereal, and silently retracing my curves? Crinkling his eyes at my multi-orgasmic body seemingly made of light, the way I tilted my head sideways when listening, the hours we talked about everything and nothing?
He lives in my chest and speaks up in desolate moments, when everything is too far away and I can’t sleep at the right time. He stands behind me in the bathroom, looking into the mirror with a bit of a smirk. I close my eyes and recreate his tattoos, unlike anything I’d ever seen up close - an unfinished sleeve, a painted leg. The delicious curve of his bulge in his fitted boxers. The way he spilled on me, hot, uninhibited, as I lay gasping in a fog of pleasure.
And I don’t give a damn ‘bout your boyfriend
He can have you after I go
I’ma do all I can, whoa whoa…
How would we be around each other, after so much time has passed? Would we be stilted, or would everything fall back into place, like we never left? I edge myself to these false memories, of hours and hours spent together, endless loop of Miguel’s voice crooning in my ear as the cars rushed by on the freeway, walking and walking, waiting for him to return. It took less than an hour for us to fit hand in glove, running along old grooves, unseen connections of bliss. I had the potential to love him and I let go, very quickly.
It comforts me in pinched moments, that we didn’t share the same interests, that we disagreed on things here and there, that it may not have been something long term but all the same his body responded to mine in a perfect way, in a way that didn’t require work or questions or redirections or hesitations. We devoured freely, lovingly, presently. And maybe it would only be that potent in the span of a long overnight stay but I humor myself in the quieter nights, the nights where sleep eludes me, that we could still savor each others’ bodies in much the same way, hungry, erotically, in a foreign country two years later.
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