Letter 16: Sweat

Miguel,

If I have to die a thousand deaths, let it be tonight.

I could still smell the aroma of your breathe, of how it enveloped me as you breath me in and out. You smell of April mornings, of late breakfast in bed and lazy afternoons. You are my addiction, Miguel, a perfume to my unscented life.

I tasted you and no words can describe how you satiate me. The feel of your skin brushing with mine, the rhythm we generated as we rock our body back and forth. I love making love to you, Miguel, as much as I love everything else about you, good and bad things alike. I love every sound you make, every sweat that fell from your brow, every pressure you gave.

What was it I said that brought us in that state? I remember you approaching me with two cans of beer.

“Let us talk.” You said, handing me one.

“I refused, Miguel.” I told you. “I might fuck us up again.”

“You don’t fuck things up. You didn’t screw me yet.” You replied, grinning.

“Oh, so all along, I was just screwing myself, eh?” I told you as we sat at the gutter. I had wondered that moment what made you left your friends and brought you there with me. I had thought that we really should stop talking during special events. You took the unopened can of beer from me and opened it.

I watched you, Miguel, watched those lips moved as your fingers wrapped around the can of beer. And you caught me watching you. I told you “nothing” when you asked me why was I staring like that.

And then you spoke up, joking “You look like you are about to kiss me.”

“Fuck you, Miguel.”

It was the most unromantic prelude to a love making ever. You grabbed me and kissed me, and “Fuck the world if they have to mind.” Was what you said, yes? We left the two worlds, Miguel, your two worlds that do not complement each other, cannot merge together, and into your car and zoomed out of the party. We made love there, under the moonlight overlooking the lake. The moonlight shine as beads of sweat sparkled from your forehead. And the lake opened up to the darkness as you opened up to me and I take you in.

I love taking you in, and I would do it all over again. “Sensual perfume.” I whispered on your ear as I smelled it from you.

“Ahhhh, the allergic rhinitis girl. Do you mind?”, was your reply. I remember you laughing when I told you about that allergy. You always find dust and cigarette smoke allergies unnecessary; “What are you? A 90-year old lady now?” you used to mock me. But last night, Miguel, there was no place for mockery. You kissed my neck as you murmured, “I do not want to have my favorite girl getting the allergies from me,” you had that wicked look in your face, “as much as I hated her getting it from someone else.”
Your favorite girl. I can get the allergies from you a thousand times, Miguel, and it won’t matter. It will never matter. You are my universal anodyne as you are my ultimate illness.

And you can kill and resurrect me in infinity.

author’s note: To refer to having sex as love making, the body betrayed the mind once more. It had acted on its own, defining circumstances based on how it reacted rather than what the mind thinks it should be defined. One is untouchable until either of the body and the mind surrenders; and it does not matter which, the moment it opens itself up, both became vulnerable. I watched them and wondered if they knew what lies ahead for them. I took a mental picture of her on his arms for it may be the first and the last time it will ever happen. And perhaps, I can share it one day with Miguel who even at that particular moment did not seem to know what had gotten into him. Perhaps, when I do, he would want to remember her.

Advertisements

About this entry