Dear John

Everytime he moves I can just see his bones and his muscles cooperating to change his position. I can even hear them twist, bend, rotate, flex.
You would imagine them –the sounds– to be quite repulsive but, if you could admire his beauty, you wouldn't mind. You wouldn't mind at all.

Hs veins –traveling the entirety of his body– are well hidden underneath his Arizona sun-tanned skin. However, some decide to emerge from the surface of his skin and display themselves along the length of his arms and his neck even.

Among constellations of light brown freckles sprinkled across his face –only visible at a lip-grazing distance– a beauty mark lays on his left cheek, like the brightest star in the night sky.

His eyes…I could go on for hours about his eyes. His gorgeous, gorgeous eyes. They are like trees; green and brown. They are like forests, full of secrets and full of life. They truly are, as well, like windows to his soul; if you stare long enough at them (but not too long as to lose yourself in the green and brown crevices and grooves of his iris) you can see everything he is. And when he laughs, his eyes slit ever so slightly and his pupils become particularly shiny. His perfect bone-colored teeth are visible and a bit of his rose red gums show as well.

He claims his body to be awkward but, to me, it's perfect. It's exactly how it's supposed to be. His skinny body isn't just bone and skin; modest muscles grow on his arms, his abs, his chest, his legs…legs that go on for days.
His upper torso is decorated with dark teal ink, here and there…like paintings in a house or flowers in a garden. Everytime I see his shirtless self I can't help but think how lovely it would be to trace his tattoos with my finger tips while laying next to him. Especially his chest piece.

W-e...

Surely, it isn't as bumpy as it was during those days right after he had it done but, if I closed my eyes I'm sure I could feel the letters beneath the tips of my fingers. No need to have my eyes open to trace the words.

A-l-l…

I imagine his arm around me, holding me tight next to his body.

H-a-v-e…

Close enough to hear his heart beating.

B-e-e-n…

I wonder if his heartbeat would be steady…

D-e-g-r-a-d-e-d…

Or if it would be fast and irregular?

W-e…

I'd like to think that if I were there, laying next to his gorgeous self with his arm around me it would be because he loved me as much as I love him.

A-l-l…

But he always seems so calm and collected...

W-i-l-l…

Clearly a silly girl like me wouldn't be enough to alter the blood-pumping rhythm of his heart.

B-e…

His eyes are closed. No forests to get lost in. Thump…thump…thump…

T-h-e…

He inhales and he exhales. Again and again, slowly but surely. Is he asleep? Thump…thump…thump…

G-r-e-a-t-e-s-t.

For a couple of seconds, my index finger rests on the last letter of the lyrics forever imprinted on his skin before moving upwards to his left collarbone. My eyes look towards his face to meet his closed eyelids, his long brown eyelashes, his half-opened thin, rose lips –that slightly show his top incisors– and his messy and unpredictable hair, mixture of dirty blonde and light brown.

A-m-o-r.

Inhale, exhale.

I'm pretty sure our breathing pattern matches.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale…

And, instead of exhaling, I whisper.

"John."

Thumpthumpthumpthump.

His eyes shoot open and meet mine and, at that point, I don't know if the pulse that's racing out of control is his or mine.