Lat, Long 01.01.14

After the 158


After the 158

Summer is unforgiving. The heat is a relentless foe. Bright and beaming white-hot death rays of sunlight slice through dense and sticky air. I prefer this type of weather. At least there is a nice breeze playing off the river in the distance keeping the humidity at a bearable level. My thighs are sticking to the bus stop bench, the thin summer dress soaked and sticky from sweat on my ribs and breasts. I think about how my tattoo ink is altering chemically under the laser power of the UV rays. The heat is making me languid and sleepy, but my stir-crazy yearning to see you shakes me from my summer coma. I am alert once more, waiting impatiently.

Once the bus arrives, I seemingly glide on board, welcomed by the dim and cool interior. I hug my belongings to my side. I traveled light, knowing full well I’d want long, uninterrupted embraces from you upon arrival. I hand an obscene amount of money to the driver, who caps the exchange by handing me the transfer pass. The afternoon crew of motley travelers is lighter now than it would have been during the morning commutes. A seat is open next to the window, and I slip in quickly, though quietly. My heart jumps—I get the best view of you from here.

My thighs welcome the cool, scratchy fabric on the seat. First, I sort out my things and lay them neatly in my lap. After this, my eyelids lower slightly and I rest my head on the window, stealing glances at you. To say the least, I am enthralled, robbed of breath, chest heaving under the pressure of your captivating hold. Time drags on, its slow pace no match for my fluttering and quickened pulse. Even still, I wait with baited breath. The anticipation building up in me is almost orgasmic.

After half an hour, we are together. A creature of beauty, splattered in a thousand colors and smelling of expensive perfume, hot metal, and scorched street food. Your mouth opens and a storm of noise pours out, indiscernible to most but a crystal clear song to my ears. A cough erupts from your maw, noxious and gray, but I don’t mind. I am home, with you, hopelessly waxing poetic about your every feature until I draw my last breath.

You are pure poetry, the salt of heartache and the stuff of valor and the truest testament to faith, hustle, and commitment. The tumultuous peaks and valleys of fading youth were marked by your fleeting, though gripping, presence. Your name and convictions are stitched into the fabric of my being, this ragtag spirit bursting at the seams in a joyful mourning for you, for us, cursing yet praising the brief and scalding reunion every damn time. With you, I am so safe and comfortable. With you, I know the meaning and taste of home.

I carry you in my hips, hellos, and heart. For eternity, my love.

Cory Etzkorn mentions...

So lovely! The UV laser rays were coming out of my screen as I read this.

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