5 July, 2015
I remember the 3 o’clock shadows on your skin, licking the sweat on your forehead, which later that night rested against the side of my neck. I wonder if you could hear my beating heart, my pulse. I can almost feel the warm air coming out of your nostrils, reminding me of the painfully delightful fact of you being alive – you being here, there, for me. Your fingertips that rested on my stomach, they were melting because of the heat, just like your lips that so deliciously pressed against my seething skin. Your whole being was pumping life into me, into my soul and my veins – they run with your blood. You’re my rock and also my tree that so carelessly moves in the wind; and I’m here. I’m holding you up by resting against your sturdy frame.