This Is What I've Longed For (Since You Left)

1. i see two people in front of me. they’re laughing, giggling, willing to spit up about the only-just-bearable food. they seem content to enjoy the slob together. the one with the long, blonde hair - she - her mug acts as safety net and weapon: a tool to drink from, yes, but an excuse to look the boy across from her in the eyes. he does this too, with his textbook. he fingers and palms pages, glances at her notes, and then up at her. they are not speaking english.

2. their language sounds something out of eastern europe – im not sure though. it’s a guess. the sound im hearing aside, it’s clear they speak the language of love, of trust, of intimacy…and this kind of language, these kinds of languages, rather (they are not one in the same, though they be close and interwoven)…never needed verbal guts and breath. all they required was a body. everything you say is in the body.

3. the other night i had a most profound experience. an experience that made me feel alive. i was in bed, with a good friend. we both being May Geminis. we both being Biters of skin - she would later bite my shoulder, close to the black birthmark, close to my collarbone, and i would bite her neck, just underneath the mole on her face. we both being Biters of words. we both being proud of our scrapes and scars - we both runners. we both magical to sit with, magical to speak to. we both being employers of inspiration.

we both seeing all this, and more, in each other: the gold athena drapes and the dirty, teary-eyed window sills. we unwind into each other, laying. tangled. there was no sound but our voices when she asked me, “do you like big spoon? i don’t want to assume…” no sound but our voices, and the inhales and exhales in between. feeling her back lift against my chest, i was reminded to breathe. “nice,” i said as compliment, when she did the same. she is the type of girl who seldom relaxes in a conventional sense. she relaxes in her own way, & the world reads her as strictly stern - as beautiful skeleton, with her sharp features, and words from yesterdays and days not yet seen. i sometimes fall into reading her that way, but that night i tried to remain present.

playing, stroking, the hair: a strategy. my hand round her hip: a strategy. answering her calls – her fingers plucking, caressing mine – with a massage of her skin: a strategy. asking questions about her dreams, not just wondering about what they might be: a strategy. looking, with a soft focus, into her eyes: a strategy. asking to kiss her: a strategy. preparing for an answer: a strategy. taking in her wide smile, blinking when she did: a strategy. approaching - the moment approaching, slowly - her lips: a strategy.

4. i like the way her kisses mark slow. a dance and then a reference, a backing away, a giggle; a memory, a picture, made. we start on our sides and then im on my back. half of our clothes are off - my red shorts, her black leggings, she dry rides. i am sucking a breast, only slightly moving the bra, and using my other hand to attend to its neighbor. her hand is in a steady motion, running over my chest. she learns my entire upper body with deep detail, noting my jumps and tickles. she says, “i feel you moving.” “yeah, im a little ticklish”

“you didn’t have to say that: my body is talking to your body,” she nerds. a tee-hee follows. i don’t miss a chance to run my fingers up and down her vertebral highway, that gorgeous dent in the skin where human fragility and vulnerability can’t be denied. and then, in stages and after statements, it comes to an end. no one was fucked, but we are satisfied. we adjust ourselves for sleep. her hand on my chest. my fingers back to her spine, her hips, her hair: a strategy. i feel…closer than i have to anyone in months. i feel a dream is achieved: to be seen, held, relaxed, and understood. intimacy. this required context, history, and time. this required early mornings, our single body, spirit, and mind.

***originally published on Vernon's personal blog.

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