They say that love like ours is a tragedy in creation, a flower that refuses to blossom, the sound of waves before it hits the shore. You are not a savior, but more than a wound that doesn’t cease to rot, an abyss over which I bind bridges with weeds. I pass over the sharp lining of your bones with the tip of fingers and scratch the shadows in your eyes to free you. You never been touched by anyone like me, nor have I ever laid my hands on borrowed skin, but the boundaries break when we move in perfect synchronization as if disturbing the sea with our hands. I catch your sighs as they leave your lips, squeezing them in my hand to taste them later. I put my face into your hair and think of all the people who worshiped you, fake and rude, how you casually took away the lives of those who challenged our love (I could easily take your life now.) Thoughts occur in the waves as I gently pull you into the rhythm of heavy breathing, words that flow like the wine down your neck, making promises through pleasure, about worlds we have yet to conquer. Your eyes lock with mine, and some strange tide moves in me. “You’re a monster“, she would tell me in awe. “All gods are monsters.”
You fall in front of me, covered in cold sweat, as divine as ever before, relaxing, trembling as you allow me to satisfy you in the most sensitive places. And I disappear in every touch because you’re beautiful, vulnerable, and immortal, while I hold you. I couldn’t hurt you to save the world, a too-crazy martyr- without faith and selfishness, and the only thing I would learn to breathe is you. I whisper incessantly about my testimony of love as the waves hit our chest. You appeared out of nowhere with genocide in the eyes and sweet poison on your lips, in front of someone who claimed to be something you wouldn’t even understand. When you came into my life, calm and self-confident, my first instinct was to pretend I was dead and born as someone who didn’t want to know your story. I looked at those half-closed lids of yours and had avoided the trap inside them. You had lipstick with a shade of faded sunshine and smelled of the time when I almost confessed to my first crush that I felt something more than just a friendship. You reminded me of some dreams of someone I loved in another life. I couldn’t stop thinking – were my hands clean enough?
I flipped through every page of the past, cleaning the dirt from previous mistakes, leaving no trace of vulnerability, but again, I seemed unworthy. You pulled my head back and breathed my doubts, and I felt it – the summer erasing the cold, the echo of remorse that was disappearing, the obstacles that stood too long, and the benches waiting. At that moment, I dreamed of kissing irregularities on your stomach, dipping my fingers into the warmth of your breasts, and letting you into parts of me that even vultures wouldn’t choose. I woke up from death staring at the abyss, and for the first time, the hands that held me were gentle, mimicking the touch of a woman. I glided through the barrier, but seeing myself through the eyes of this enchanted creature that saw my most naive hopes, I managed not to slip out, because what I saw was a promise, and what’s left is fulfillment.