I fall back into his arms – dark covers fold under us in waves of twisted beats. Droplets of sweat roll down into the stream, the quiet murmur of another summer night. Wet strands cling to his temples, glimmering all sorts of wheat and barley in the moonlight.
I rest the back of my head on his shoulder — his breath curls its way down my collarbones.
Black chiffon, red wax, and the half-crescent Moon that hangs over us – voices fade into one another, wave after wave, and the music carries them on into the darkness.
I close my eyes for a minute. Breathe in deep.
And he locks my fingers into a bone-crushing embrace of sorts for a moment – I hear my joints crack as he asks how my boyfriend’s doing.
I can’t help but laugh – every sound’s a shiny pearl, rolling and rolling, scattering on the ground below in an infinite melody. Everything ties back to the origin – the original sin, the original scar. That one trauma that made us. Words slashed into the fabric of our very essence. All roads lead to Rome, eventually…
Every face looks the same if you stare at them long enough.
And so I close my eyes and let my senses guide me as I turn around in his embrace and draw him into a passionate kiss. He tastes just like summer skies – the orange mist that flows in curls above the fields as the day breaks, lemonade spritzers on a starry night, the hum of the midnight city, crop tops and cocktails, the last grain of salt on the rim of my margarita glass.
It comes and goes in waves.
And the lemniscate locks into itself as my fingers thread through his golden waves, counting stars and counting blessings in a cascading continuity of noir stills, shot in a space that’s dropped out of time.
Our physical body melts into stars as the night washes over us and carries away our earthly shapes on the back of its dark waves of contemplation.
The night finds me in my kitchen, perched on a bar stool, listening to You’re my Waterloo even though I said I wouldn’t, I said I would not listen to it ever again.
It’s a weird swing of a pendulum, everything sways into and out of balance, an ambient melody that brings back different times.
I put Sailor’s Tales on while I do the dishes – first draft, it says, but that’s always been closest to my heart. The love I felt back then knew no bounds. If only I loved myself the way I loved him…
It consoles me to think that it was a karmic romance. An energy exchange of sorts, a soul contract, an unavoidable chain of events that we subconsciously gravitated towards, perhaps all along.
It was the type of romance Amy wrote all those beautiful and oh-so-deeply-sad songs about. It was never really about Blake – we both were mourning for a future that would never come to pass.
I could have loved you forever.
And it’s only now that I realise that I struggled to do so all along. I wasn’t yet strong enough to free myself and that came with a lot of guilt and shame – I struggled to love myself the way I deserved to be loved. I didn’t feel whole and therefore I couldn’t appear as such – not in friendships, not in a relationship.
I’ve rebuilt many bridges since. Apologised to people I thought I would never be able to look in the eye again and was forgiven. Wrote, drew, created, lost myself in the process, sang, dance, built a whole new identity on the fertile soil of jouissance and let my true essence shine through, casting its long shadows over any preconceived notions of who I thought I was supposed to be.
I read. I learnt. I grew and cultivated myself in silence, listened to the wind, felt the earth under all 10 digits, learned to breathe in synch with the rhythm of the urban heartbeat and exhale as the city exhales.
Invisible ties bind my existence. I am somewhere. I belong.
And there’s nothing I love more than the early autumn air, embracing me like a long-lost lover, blowing cold air on my clavicles.
I’m still in love with the season – nothing’s changed, yet everything did.
I blossom with the golden leaves, the burning, blazing colours of the season, the subtle chill that curls its long fingers around me, the leaves that cover the pavement in front of my house.
It’s been a long, hard road out of hell.
I no longer live in the same reality I did a year ago… even six months ago.
We sit side by side, staring into the sun. Its scorching rays melt away our pretences, they melt away the ice as we lean back on the pavement, and snack lazily on a bowl of frozen strawberries.
They paint his fingers red. I feel it more than I see it – everything’s engulfed in the white hot light as he lies down next to me. Breathes in. Breathes out.
I can feel his chest rising like I can feel my own. I remember his perfect jawline, his dark brown eyelashes. I remember what it feels like to be seen by him.
He doesn’t say anything. I can feel his rings clink against mine, silver on silver, a resolute moment of playful solitude.
Say my name – he forms the words with his lovely lips; not a sound escapes them, just his soft breath as we stare into the sun.
Then my breathing grows heavy as I recall an image of him, standing on the Cornish coast, tall, angular, all sorts of right. A ray of sunlight catches on his ear piercing and I’m back on the pavement, blinded, and oh so close to that transcendent moment of surrender.
It can’t come quickly enough.
Drops of sweat roll down the sharp angles of his face – there’s a physicality about all of this.
He dreams of me with his eyes open – I’m a reflection of a reflection, sweet chimes echoing through hidden chambers deep within.
His fingers interlock with mine – I feel his ring press against my own. We stay there. Silent. Staring into the sun.
J's photoalbum of youth, and loves, and in betweens 