Closer
Prologue.
Those eyes.
Those smoldering, fluorescent sunbeams of gold--a mixture of a yellow and orange much like the eastern horizon under a cloud of gray, raged through me like a wildfire. His pupils were like erupting oil wells, leaving marks all over my parched body and igniting a frenzy of sexual rage through my veins; the heat and teeth we exposed beckoned a violent sensation, an unknown reason to ravage each other's bodies like we were two civilizations landing on each other's shores.
The sensation of keeping it all in the dark was what thrilled me the most, even more than the coma-inducing shudder that starts at the base of my spine and ends at my sweat covered lips. Even alcohol couldn't compare to the taste of his name on my swollen self, or the raised hair on the back of my neck, or the introverted gasp of surprise when his breath was close to mine. Although I couldn't imagine anything better than feeling like we were criminals, outlaws, libertines . . . the looks over the shoulder, subtle brushes of limbs, the faint scent of nicotine flavored breath--they were all a heroin-like exhilaration I could not abandon.
I could not let go.
I could not let go.
I could not let go.
The grips we had. . . oh, the strange, relieving comfort of his tight grasp of my shoulder and teeth marks in the crook of my neck cradled me into a euphoria which I cannot, and probably never will be able to, explain. That was the way it always was: empty, stale; though, without a doubt, not meaningless. The uncertain feeling of love was tempting enough to succumb to the notion that maybe, just maybe . . . we were supposed to be, that we had as much definition as the sun on a cloudless day.
And then, I would asked myself, what it was that I could not let go of, and the answer was always unable to be captured; it was not like it didn't want to be, but that it couldn't be. But it stood in a shadow of something greater: his eyes. Even at night when we humanized ourselves into animalistic behavior that lengthened into the day, I could never catch those discs of amber; I only knew the color by the contrast of it against the grieving dark room.
He was always, always there, like some sacred memory no one else shared, in the darkest crevices of my mind. His skin tasted like salt under my tongue where I kept it to savor the taste of defiance; it was the only way we could be together after love songs on the radio, or accidents of catching each other's glances, and the times we both new we were longing to be alone, together, while everyone else was around.
Bravery was something I did not know at that time, and maybe, as I think of it now, that was what kept me against his shoulder like an embarrassed child in his presence alone. I remember how my body was never completely erect, or that I tended to gaze at my food when we ate together, or that he somehow towered over me like the Appalachians. I couldn't even open my mouth to speak sometimes; I tried to blame my quiet presence on the burn in my throat, but I knew it was just my fear of being taken away from him.
There was only one time that I came close to relieving the difference we had in strength. A few years ago, when we still had the Volkswagen, we were at the pier on a very cold day in December. We had rented a beach front motel for the holidays to avoid the frustrating business of log cabins and tourism. I remember how the ocean was glassy and cold in a black and white kind of way. It was late in a chilly day, when no one bothered to roam the beach, and the sky hung low as if it were going to swallow the earth whole.
"Look at that sky," he murmured.
Admiration . . . alertness, like life was new . . . how adorable. Oh God, this is fatal end of my futile attempt to flee from his spell. This is my stop; alert the train operator. I looked down past the wooden railing to distract myself from the woes of this mesmerizing attachment. I wanted to become Houdini right at that moment, to perform magic, a trick that we never met, and jump into the sea. I would fake my death in the Pacific ocean, during winter . . . a real cold corpse.
"Yeah, I know."
"What time is it?" He asked, turning against the blackened wood with his lanky hips protruding from his frame under a layer of warm clothes. I wanted to hug him, to not let go for a very long time, then pull away with my clothes smelling of him.
"We should head in."
"No, let's stay a little longer," he persisted. I couldn't stop myself from protesting after grappling with my rival: the challenge to grasp what we were, and understand that there were doubts, or to continue pretending like things were perfect, and there would never be anything but us.
"Why . . . " I began.
"Why what?"
"Why does it always have to be a little longer, a little more, a little better?" The words left my mouth like a snowstorm. They felt cold and rushed, and I was frightened that they would freeze him to death. A ripping, imaginary pain seared my abdomen--an exaggerated hope that he wouldn't think anything of it.
He was silent for a while , as if studying the distance ahead which neither of us could possibly grasp or understand in the slightest. Time passed in little excruciating trickles, like I was teetering on the edge of life in a hospital bed with the drip, drip, drip of an IV swirling inside my veins. When he finally spoke, at first I did not understand; his words ran together in a hurried murmur--or maybe I chose static instead.
" . . . it's not like we have anywhere to go. "
It's not like we have anywhere to go.
It's not like we have anywhere to go.
It's not like we have anywhere to go.
He was so right. From then on I did not bother to wonder what we were or what we would become; exhaustion forced me into believing that it was impossible to crumble. I simply didn't want to know. All I wanted was to cry. I could feel the flare in my nostrils and blazing warmth in my cheeks arrive, ready as ever. But I knew that I had to hold up, I had to keep myself if I wanted to keep him.
I did not need to cry; There was no reason to cry.
I could not cry. I couldn't.
I could not let go.
I could not let go.
I could not let go.
Those smoldering, fluorescent sunbeams of gold--a mixture of a yellow and orange much like the eastern horizon under a cloud of gray, raged through me like a wildfire. His pupils were like erupting oil wells, leaving marks all over my parched body and igniting a frenzy of sexual rage through my veins; the heat and teeth we exposed beckoned a violent sensation, an unknown reason to ravage each other's bodies like we were two civilizations landing on each other's shores.
The sensation of keeping it all in the dark was what thrilled me the most, even more than the coma-inducing shudder that starts at the base of my spine and ends at my sweat covered lips. Even alcohol couldn't compare to the taste of his name on my swollen self, or the raised hair on the back of my neck, or the introverted gasp of surprise when his breath was close to mine. Although I couldn't imagine anything better than feeling like we were criminals, outlaws, libertines . . . the looks over the shoulder, subtle brushes of limbs, the faint scent of nicotine flavored breath--they were all a heroin-like exhilaration I could not abandon.
I could not let go.
I could not let go.
I could not let go.
The grips we had. . . oh, the strange, relieving comfort of his tight grasp of my shoulder and teeth marks in the crook of my neck cradled me into a euphoria which I cannot, and probably never will be able to, explain. That was the way it always was: empty, stale; though, without a doubt, not meaningless. The uncertain feeling of love was tempting enough to succumb to the notion that maybe, just maybe . . . we were supposed to be, that we had as much definition as the sun on a cloudless day.
And then, I would asked myself, what it was that I could not let go of, and the answer was always unable to be captured; it was not like it didn't want to be, but that it couldn't be. But it stood in a shadow of something greater: his eyes. Even at night when we humanized ourselves into animalistic behavior that lengthened into the day, I could never catch those discs of amber; I only knew the color by the contrast of it against the grieving dark room.
He was always, always there, like some sacred memory no one else shared, in the darkest crevices of my mind. His skin tasted like salt under my tongue where I kept it to savor the taste of defiance; it was the only way we could be together after love songs on the radio, or accidents of catching each other's glances, and the times we both new we were longing to be alone, together, while everyone else was around.
Bravery was something I did not know at that time, and maybe, as I think of it now, that was what kept me against his shoulder like an embarrassed child in his presence alone. I remember how my body was never completely erect, or that I tended to gaze at my food when we ate together, or that he somehow towered over me like the Appalachians. I couldn't even open my mouth to speak sometimes; I tried to blame my quiet presence on the burn in my throat, but I knew it was just my fear of being taken away from him.
There was only one time that I came close to relieving the difference we had in strength. A few years ago, when we still had the Volkswagen, we were at the pier on a very cold day in December. We had rented a beach front motel for the holidays to avoid the frustrating business of log cabins and tourism. I remember how the ocean was glassy and cold in a black and white kind of way. It was late in a chilly day, when no one bothered to roam the beach, and the sky hung low as if it were going to swallow the earth whole.
"Look at that sky," he murmured.
Admiration . . . alertness, like life was new . . . how adorable. Oh God, this is fatal end of my futile attempt to flee from his spell. This is my stop; alert the train operator. I looked down past the wooden railing to distract myself from the woes of this mesmerizing attachment. I wanted to become Houdini right at that moment, to perform magic, a trick that we never met, and jump into the sea. I would fake my death in the Pacific ocean, during winter . . . a real cold corpse.
"Yeah, I know."
"What time is it?" He asked, turning against the blackened wood with his lanky hips protruding from his frame under a layer of warm clothes. I wanted to hug him, to not let go for a very long time, then pull away with my clothes smelling of him.
"We should head in."
"No, let's stay a little longer," he persisted. I couldn't stop myself from protesting after grappling with my rival: the challenge to grasp what we were, and understand that there were doubts, or to continue pretending like things were perfect, and there would never be anything but us.
"Why . . . " I began.
"Why what?"
"Why does it always have to be a little longer, a little more, a little better?" The words left my mouth like a snowstorm. They felt cold and rushed, and I was frightened that they would freeze him to death. A ripping, imaginary pain seared my abdomen--an exaggerated hope that he wouldn't think anything of it.
He was silent for a while , as if studying the distance ahead which neither of us could possibly grasp or understand in the slightest. Time passed in little excruciating trickles, like I was teetering on the edge of life in a hospital bed with the drip, drip, drip of an IV swirling inside my veins. When he finally spoke, at first I did not understand; his words ran together in a hurried murmur--or maybe I chose static instead.
" . . . it's not like we have anywhere to go. "
It's not like we have anywhere to go.
It's not like we have anywhere to go.
It's not like we have anywhere to go.
He was so right. From then on I did not bother to wonder what we were or what we would become; exhaustion forced me into believing that it was impossible to crumble. I simply didn't want to know. All I wanted was to cry. I could feel the flare in my nostrils and blazing warmth in my cheeks arrive, ready as ever. But I knew that I had to hold up, I had to keep myself if I wanted to keep him.
I did not need to cry; There was no reason to cry.
I could not cry. I couldn't.
I could not let go.
I could not let go.
I could not let go.