Their skin would be at a slow burn and
they’d lay in bed so close Mateo could feel Alí’s chest heaving. He’d run his
finger on Alí’s freckled skin and Alí would look back at Mateo, deeply into
him, curiosity in his brown eyes; both boys with hard-ons.
They would kiss and whisper silly things
- “I love you” - and those I love you’s would again be said but not until
decades had gone, and they had grown up somewhere in the world as unsteady,
wrinkled and foulmouthed servicemen.
Their memories of unabashed love swiftly
take shape and then retrieve to a corner like scolded children.
How lustful and stupid the young are.
How I long to go back there myself; regress and be a fool! Back there, when all
is full of wonder. When undressing is frightening bliss; and the love that
ensues, cataclysmic.
Tonight however, memories turn against
Mateo. And yes, against an aloof Ali. Sweet memories of light, warm touches and
great fucks; which once broke through their isolation, now rush in like
enemies.
How to rescue them, I beg. With my own
eyes filled with water, my heart booming with ire, to a goddess who seems to
have left them in the grip. And me, alone to wrestle with my insatiable demons:
longing and loathing.
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