Magic is real.
He was golden — that’s what I remember most. His eyes stared so deep into mine that I’m sure he could search for my soul there and play with it if he wanted to. Everytime he touched me I’ve felt a kind of a shock — as if the point of contact between our skins were a call for a storm. His hair dripping like full black clouds into my body, composing the beauty and intensity to the picture he was painting in me. His mouth was his brush, his teeth the tools that molded me into something new, beautiful… something ours.
We never finished that painting — and I don’t think we need or are even supposed to. As his being was becoming one with me, we became something else. And I knew that what we were doing was magic. What I didn’t know was that I also know a language I almost never spoke to anyone else, and he also knew how to read and listen to it. We didn’t shift to it consciously — we just started talking.
I knew what his breathing was saying without speaking a word. I knew what his hands wanted to do to my mouth, to my neck, how they reached for me in a silent movement that also made me want for more everytime. I’ve discovered that the space between our lips is the biggest distance between us we can afford to have. And when we closed our eyes together it was like a warm dance inviting me to give my all to him… And so I did.
Now I am also golden. An amalgamation of desires that we don’t care from which of us it was anymore. I keep on giving to him, and receiving from him, until we no longer were two bodies together: we were art. An expression of movement, not a finished product, but that glimpse you have into another reality that never really leaves you when you create something new. When you nurture something precious that you have.
I was his, and he was mine, in the purest form of possession that is also liberation. There is a point in history where I’m no longer without him. He is no longer without me.
We just are.
We are golden.