Written and submitted by Moira Chaytoo.
There I was, my heart going extra miles than a hummingbird’s flap and how sweaty were my palms at that point. This was the moment that I felt the most vulnerable yet revolving as I assume that I have found love in this man who is about to leave soon, less than a day. The amount of pain yet happiness that come in a bundle of mushed up feelings is nondescript yet there we were, facing the smoke being transformed into a gull age of shapes, forming and deforming as our unspoken words and thoughts drifted in its evolving multiple shapes which then on disappeared in the cascade of dew drops.
It’s always been the almosts, maybes, yet this felt right and scary to the point this was just running in my mind like a tape, for which I was unconsciously rooting for to end just like others, whenever we had these mini cigarette breaks, when he thinks I am just zoning out while staring at him vividly with droopy eyes, rolling away our pair of cigarettes, how his hand worked in a trained yet sexy order or how he flicks the tip of his tongue over the rolling paper as a finale for our rolls, yet it gave me the feeling of needing that very tongue trace every part of my body, inch by inch, validating the inner goddess in me further. God, I’m in love, am I now?
How I analysed the words I wanted to use in conversations and not having to ruin even the tiniest moments, how I tried to have him taste and devour every inch of my body till I’m dripping wet, the satisfaction and his wanting that I feel at the back of my throat, oh lord.
But it is when the rain started pouring, my cigarette burnt too fast to act as a distraction, and that eye contact. Oh that seductive, trippy yet droopy eyes with which I made contact, to which hell broke loose so my emotions poured out along the rain with regret yet relief, as he embraced me in his arms while uttering sugarcoated possibilities and love for me to which I clung on like how an orphaned kitten would cling on to its newfound owner who discovered her in a garbage. It’s never the sex or the need of a label but how my loneliness and want for proper simple love is complete yet, what can be perfectly imperfect in this union? Timing.
That’s the thing with love, where the timing is wrong, but it’s where the right one arrives just to depart, or the timing would be all so right but a passerby would get you glued to them in a way to convince you that yes I am the one, but it’s the loneliness and desperation that have kept you together with the other, as my heart is still at the other side of the coast.