"Te Cielo"

It had been years since I last saw him but the other day, I ran into him again. Our eyes locked as we crossed the street and suddenly my old self returned. I time travelled. I was no longer here, but there. I wrote to him, about him, and for him; invented new words to describe how much I loved him because the word “love” seemed, to me, meaningless compared to what I felt in that moment.

“Te cielo,” I used to tell him. (trans. “I sky you”)

On that first night that we met, I asked him where he felt emotions. While we guided both of our hands through different parts of our bodies, tracing every curve, we began to relish in those feelings. His hair was the most beautiful shade of copper I had ever seen, perfumed by sandalwood and freshly cut grass; his eyes shone in cerulean hues, enticing and bewitching me under the pale moonlight, the bright sun and the transient shade. His nose was sharp and pointy, looked almost like a beak. His lips were plump and red from constant biting – chapped but constantly moisturized by his swiping tongue. Martín came straight out of my own private myths and dreams, straight out from inside a painting; he was an identical copy of Alexandre Cabanel’s Fallen Angel, both literally and figuratively. He was my own fallen angel, punishing me for the love I felt for him; coercing and tempting me to sin. Martín looked like a canvas, looked like art; with the palest skin I had ever seen, the blue lines from his veins painted a picture in his body – it was as if a tree’s roots had made their home inside his body; as if he was their vessel. I can remember being scared that Martín would disintegrate like a vampire in the sun whenever we went to the beach together. I used to call him ‘Lestat’ and he always laughed at this, not because he understood my reference but because it made him feel seen.

He loved me in the only way that he knew and I believe I loved him. But now, in brief looks that no longer belong to me, I see him looking at others the way he looked at me – like I now look at myself. But still, I go through life looking for signs of a love that was once mine, or at least his, but that is neither mine nor his anymore but of the past. Perhaps, even looking for a love that never existed, that I thought existed but was, instead, masked by an intoxicating type violence that he made sure was my fault.

I chased after him, pushing past one-night stands and crowds of false admirers until we both became half-asleep with the love we felt for each other, numb to anything else, even to the pain he caused. But I awoke suddenly when it was time to leave, not because I didn’t love him anymore, but because I realized that what he showed me wasn’t adoration, but a possessiveness that to this day frightens me. I needed to find comfort elsewhere – in myself, in Paris, in solitude. I had become silent; the love escaped from inside of me, coming in and out as it pleased. As silent as a liminal space, as a chapel after mass has ended. The quiet prevailed but the doors of pleasure always opened. I said to him: consume me; and he did, since the very beginning. And now every part of my body is overcome with memories of him, of what he left behind, of what I let him leave behind.

Hands

I feel loneliness in my hands; he feels loneliness in his chest.

I traced the lines of his palm, a desiccated land – dry and brittle.

Thin lips kissed the interiors of his palm right where the love line should be. His love line, full of cracks and fissures, ran deep along his palm from one side until his index finger. He asked me what that meant.

Trailing kisses met its destination at the base of the lifeline, splitting into three like Poseidon’s trident.

Dilated pupils looked at me through this intimate action.

My mouth brushed past his fate line, which runs right in the middle of this predestined map, and found its way to the top.

His index finger touched the bottom of my lip. Wet and warm. It pushed it down, pressing it into the chin.

With locked eyes, I softly bit his finger.

He smiled and let his kisses fall over my body like a meteor shower.

Cheek

I feel anxiety in my cheeks; he feels anxiety in his liver.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“Just a bit. But it’s okay. You didn’t mean to hit me that hard,” I reassured.

Tingling sensation all across my face.

Red. Palpitating. An intense hammering from the inside out coming through in a thousand vibrations.

Both cheeks were victims – but I liked it. Didn't I?

Afterwards, the kiss of guilt. Soft and gentle. The aftercare.

Cheek bones clashing against his palm.

Rhythmic noises caused by the impact of skin on skin.

Like the touch of wind, three fingers, three fingertips traced my cheek, serving as a reminder of his visit, inspecting his masterpiece.

At the beginning, he seemed to touch me hesitantly as if scared to approach. Scared that I was going to crumble at his touch. His fingertips brushed against my face until they confidently pressed down and dragged my supple skin downwards. I still don’t know where the confidence came from, why the sudden shift occurred.

After he noticed that I didn’t crumble, that my body was still there, his hand cupped my chin while his fingertips stayed in place, as if molding me out of clay, grabbing me forcefully and positioning my body to his liking.

He once told me he thought I was going to be swept off my feet by the wind and that is why he left marks on my body– wanted to prove that he was here before I disappeared.

Neck

I feel desire in my neck; surprisingly, he also felt desire in his neck.

Tongue swiping across my jawline.

Blue and purple circles become my jewelry – parents scold me.

White concealer hides my pearls.

His hands always found their way to my neck, seizing me with a tight hold. His middle finger and thumb pressed the sides of my throat forcing a tiny breath from inside my mouth.

I inhaled carefully the very syllables of his name and felt them roll off my tongue in the most delicious of ways. His name tasted of cinnamon and smelt of patchouli, it felt like silk and sounded like heaven, like the cascading arpeggio of a harp. I kept your name heavily guarded in my throat, on the tip of my tongue – under lock and key. I wondered how long I could go without whispering your name.

“Look! Look how long this love can hold its breath”

Hip bones

I feel fear in my hips, he feels fear in his bottom left rib.

The atoms in my body vibrated, clashing against each other like sweaty bodies on a dancefloor, as if knowing he was close by, as if wanting to merge with his own atoms just so that we could be free to love for eternity.

He found my body made out of bricks but left it in marble: urbem latericium invenit marmoream reliquit.

I stripped away my clothes and left myself bare: pura, casta, nívea.

His mouth journeys through valleys made out of bones, through my rib cage, all the way to my navel. My hip bones, like two forgotten tombstones, stand guard, witnessing how quickly time passes and how they are the only things in my body to remain constant. He poked and used them as breadcrumbs to follow the trail of desire while he sipped red wine from my collarbones.

Mouth

I feel trust in my mouth; he feels trust in his knees.

We were talking about the ocean that first night we met, right before his lips clashed with mine.

We were sitting on the beach that is five minutes from my house. He asked me how it felt to have such a powerful and unpredictable force so close to me, threatening destruction with every crash, with every pull back, with every sway of the water. I didn’t know if he was referring to himself or the ocean anymore.

I stood up and walked to the water, letting my toes be surrounded by cold bliss, by the sea foam that emerged from the water like Aphrodite.

He came over to stand next to me, wearing moonlight as his garment. His eyes exploded in blue shards, and I remember saying: “The ancient Greeks had no word for blue – how would they have described your eyes?”

But the word blue exists because someone else saw their lover’s eyes and felt the way I do. And that proves we exist, that he exists, that the way he looked at me was true.

And that at that moment, right after his lips touched mine, right after his hands found their way inside, I felt like lightning.

Head

I feel fear in my crown; he feels fear in his throat.

On occasions, he massages my scalp by drawing tiny circles across my head.

Focused eyes look at me from above as I lay down sprawled across his lap. Sometimes the tiny circles make their way down, visiting the nape of my neck, lingering there for a moment, until he finds my naked back where he stays until it is time to leave. I wish time didn’t exist and that he could stay there, with his miniature doodles imprinted on my back by his touch.

On other occasions, my head was not treated so kindly.

Fingers clasp brown curls tightly jerking me backwards to look at him as if I was some sort of acrobat who could contort at his will.

Shock reverberates in my spine with every pull and yank, but I say nothing.

I feel his palm against the back of my head and feel the pressure he exerts on that specific spot.

Suddenly, he lets go and instead pushes my head against the mattress, the leather car seat, the floor. Half of my face becomes the bed, the car, the solid ground, while the other half simply watches.

My witnessing eye, the one not pressed against a surface, blinks a few times and then closes, choosing the other senses – limiting sight.

Knees

I feel shame in my knees; he feels shame in his lower back.

Martín whispers, while in a pleading position: “please don’t leave”

I won’t. I will.

Kissing the back of my knees, I think about how only the wind has touched that part of my body. The sun’s scorching rays and the ocean’s saltwater have also managed to kiss my body; they are the ones who have come the closest but he broke through the barriers and planted a confident kiss.

Thighs

I feel love in my thighs; he feels love everywhere.

Mountains of passion.

His fingertips trace my inner thigh like braille, trying to read the inner workings of my mind. As if trying to decipher if I loved him through my razor burns.

He crawled inside my body, kissed the corners of it and loved me where I was most ruined. He took my chained wrists and kissed them; he caressed my scarred thighs and served as healing ointment; while also being the creator of my bruises, he kissed them, making me forget he was ever the reason. He kissed the corners of my mouth, coaxing a smile to erupt, forcing it upward.

And what happened between us?

Nothing...everything.