Orgasm (Part II)

I run my fingers slowly and subtly down your neck, breathing from your mouth and sipping my own honey from your lips. You offer me your neck as you wrap my waist in your embrace. Your breathing gradually deepens as my hands run down your chest in a caress that lingers at the edge of your hips and then rises again down your back to rest on your shoulders. You breathe in the scent of my neck, and my hands move again; this time, they caress the nape of your neck and return to your cheeks, your jaw, and your cleft chin.

I cover your eyes with my scarf and proceed to undress you. As if they were only caresses, I move down your arms to remove your open shirt while my tongue, playfully and insinuatingly, runs over your neck, your chest, your navel, and your lower abdomen. I feel your breathing intensify, and a warm bulge beneath your belt makes its way, throbbing, under your clothes. I untie your belt and remove your pants and underwear. I caress your sex with my fingertips and gently press your glans in circular motions with my thumb. I hear your first moan and I smile. This is just the beginning, I whisper, and I see your pearly teeth smile mischievously as you stroke my hair.

I lay your face down and sit on your back while I massage your head, the nape of your neck, your shoulders, your shoulder blades. The touch of your body begins to arouse me, and a warm wetness nests on your back. You smile again. Is everything okay? you ask. Yes, I answer. You know me by now. You relax again as I move down your back and knead your buttocks, thighs, calves, and feet. I kiss your toes, and you moan again, more intensely. You turn around. I continue kissing your feet while I watch transparent, viscous drops fall from your member, igniting my thirst. I resist the urge to go and taste you immediately; instead, I slowly move up your body, massaging you.

I finally land on your pelvis. My massages become caresses again but controlled by my nails. That subtle touch invades your entire hip area with a blanket of goosebumps. You spread your legs to give me space, amidst your laboured breathing. I rest the pad of my thumb on your perineum while the nails of my other hand caress your testicles, and finally, I wrap my fingers around your erection. I press and move my hand up the skin surrounding you. I relax the pressure and lower it again. I repeat the movement while my fingers moisten with the honey you release.

You instinctively bring your hand to your blindfold. You hesitate and finally keep them covered. You breathe with your mouth open, and the wetness of your tongue turns me on. I want to connect your wetness with mine, so I lick your glans and run my tongue over it. Your abdomen tenses, and you release all your breath in a deep, resounding gasp. You catch your breath in a ragged breath. You moan again. You stroke my hair, and with your hands, gently rhythmically indicating the pace you want me to follow.

I continue for a few moments until my own arousal interrupts me, and I moan. That's enough. You sit up and kiss me. Your hands move to my crotch, and you feel my wetness with your fingers. You position your member, and I take away your hand with mine. No, I smile, let me do it. You wrap your arms around my waist again, while I swing over you with my pelvis. Eventually, I catch you, and our wetness mingles as we become one.

Warm and soft, our bodies merge as I kiss your forehead and you kiss my breasts. You bite my nipples, and in response, I kiss your earlobes. I moan and sigh so close to your ear that you shudder, and another energy takes hold of you. You continue penetrating me when, between warmth and exquisite pain, my senses merge again. Your breathing becomes frantic and sonorous, and you penetrate me faster as you return to kissing and licking my nipples. My orgasm isn't over yet when yours begins. I tip you back and lie entirely on top of you as your semen conquers me and starts to flow from my vulva.

We both sigh. You remove the blindfold but keep your eyes closed. I contemplate your virile features, your broad forehead, your defined lips. I kiss you so lightly that my lips barely touch you. You smile and open your eyes. That was...

...Inspiring, I add. I curl up in the hollow made by your chest and arms, for my body.

Will we do it again? 

Sinister tales 7

Julia took a breath and reminded herself that no matter how much she tore her hands apart as she made her way through the earth, silence was essential. She resumed the task -started several hours ago and planned for months- somewhat stunned by how the events that led her to this moment and place had occurred. She barely remembered her life before this project began; the only clear thing was the destination to which this hole would lead her. She smelled the damp earth mixed with her blood and vomited. She felt that perhaps it was better this way and this feeling made her wonder if she would reach her own limit before reaching her destination.

She continued without resting for another hour when she felt she touched something hard. Her heart started beating wildly. She confirmed through the touch that this was exactly what she was searching for. When she found the edge she had studied to the point of being able to recognize it with her eyes closed (or in complete darkness, as she was now), Julia used the crowbar she brought with her to pry off the corner.

A nauseating and penetrating smell told her that she had opened the cover. She removed the earth around it so that nothing else would stand between her and her goal. With the surroundings now clear, she finished opening the box and breathed in the air that finally gave her the freedom she so desperately sought. She took the small, tiny figure from inside the box and cradled it in her arms while whispering a sad lullaby... Julia understood that the pact with the love of her life was until death did them part, but her bond as a mother would transcend any limit: physical or spiritual; of sanity or madness; and of life or death.

Cuentos siniestros 7

Julia tomó un respiro mientras se recordó a sí misma que no importaba cuánto se destrozara las manos al abrirse paso en la tierra; el silencio era fundamental. Retomó la tarea -iniciada ya hace varias horas y planificada por meses- algo aturdida por cómo habían acontecido los hechos que la llevaron a ese momento y a ese lugar. Poco recordaba incluso de su vida antes de que este proyecto empezara; lo único claro era el destino al que esta horadada la llevaría. Olió la tierra húmeda que se mezclaba con su sangre y vomitó. Sintió que tal vez era mejor así y este sentimiento le hizo preguntarse si llegaría a su propio límite antes de llegar a su destino. 

Continuó sin descanso por una hora más cuando sintió que tocaba algo duro. El corazón le empezó a palpitar desaforadamente. Confirmó con el tacto que se trataba exactamente de lo que buscaba. Cuando encontró el borde que había estudiado al punto de ser capaz de reconocerlo a ojos cerrados (o en completa oscuridad, como se encontraba ahora), Julia utilizó la palanca que trajo consigo para desprender la esquina. 

Un olor nauseabundo y penetrante le indicó que había quitado la cubierta. Desprendió la tierra de alrededor para que nada más se interpusiera entre ella y su objetivo. Ya con el entorno despejado, terminó de abrir la caja y respiró a borbotones el aire que le daba finalmente la libertad que tan desesperadamente ella buscaba. Tomó a la pequeña, pequeñísima figura de dentro de la caja y la acurrucó en sus brazos mientras susurraba una triste canción de cuna... Julia entendía que el pacto con el amor de su vida era hasta que la muerte los separara, pero su vínculo de madre trascendería cualquier límite: físico o espiritual; de sensatez o locura; y de vida o de muerte.

Sinister tales 3

Sarah was, trait by trait, everything Christian wanted to have: Her free spirit, clever mind, and innocent heart wouldn't stop amazing him. Christian had everything Sarah dreamed of: a loving and unconditional family, an accepting circle, and the opportunity to develop freely who he was, not who he had to be. Maybe that is why they matched so quickly; Sarah felt confident enough to trust a man who had such level of support around him. Christian was looking forward to having what Sarah was and sharing her with his family: not really often you have such brain and heart, so these were a promise for a fine delicatessen to enjoy until the very last crumb and the very last bone.

Cuentos siniestros 3

Sarah era, rasgo por rasgo, todo lo que Christian quería tener: su espíritu libre, su mente inteligente y su corazón inocente no dejaban de sorprenderlo. Christian tenía todo lo que Sarah soñaba: una familia amorosa e incondicional, un círculo que lo aceptaba y la oportunidad de desarrollar libremente quién era, no quién tenía que ser. Tal vez por eso se acoplaron tan rápido; Sarah se sentía lo suficientemente segura como para confiar en un hombre que tenía tal nivel de apoyo a su alrededor. Christian estaba ansioso por tener lo que Sarah era y compartirla con su familia: no es realmente común tener tal cerebro y corazón, por lo que estos eran una promesa de una delicatesse muy fina a disfrutar hasta la última miga y el último hueso.

Overall

As a summary of two years of illusion, 

two months of struggle, and two more of grief,

I must admit that math 

might have worked in my favour, Cutie thief:

I promised you I'd give you 

love and happiness on demand;

I promised myself I'd learn 

from any moment we would have.

It turned out that you got

good talks, good food, and weekend fun;

It turned out that I got

taste, touch, smell, sight, and sound.

But later it happened to you

that you couldn't escape your patterns

and remained snared in your ways:

hurtful, deflective, mute... avoidant when it mattered.

And later it happened to me:

I could see your traits, their pace,

and I turned myself free:

caring, loving, gorgeously brave.

You tightened then the grip around your heart

in the chain prison where you trapped it.

I made then a rent-free room for you,

in the prostitute's hotel of my heart-beats.

And while it's true that it was hard to let go 

after 18 years of panic that hurt like a knife,

not having flayed my skin to patch your wounds

was the bravest decision of my life.

You now resent me for not being unconditional

and walking away by saying the words you couldn't provide;

I now thank you deeply for having been my Bêta Test

with whom -in every phase- I learned how much I grew inside.

So, overall and in summary:

You remained yourself after me 

and I transformed myself after you

(Math indeed worked in my favour, see?).

The cognitive dissonance of an anticlimactic breakup.

I caressed your hands as I used to while you'd drive me down the street when I noticed that none of your fingers reacted to mine. It was, suddenly, as if in between my touch and your skin there was an infinite void (maybe given by an electromagnetic field of atoms, once welcomingly reject·ful), that sucked my energy and turned it into ice before reaching you.

I knew it then, before any word came out of you or me. 

I breathed my pain and started talking.

- Have you decided to end us?

- That’s what you wanted to talk about…

- It crossed my mind.

You remained silent for a few seconds (each of them killed a bit of me). You finally added:

- It’s a lot of things.

It wasn’t a surprise for me. Of all the things you planned for yourself (with me), living the way you did while holding my hand was out of the box. In the end, it was me who always surprised you, and at most, your sentence now dashed the plan of the sweetest love I was going to make to you, on your couch, after kissing your complete nakedness.

I breathed my pain again and stopped caressing your void before adding:

- I know. And I knew that if I dared to ask you for it, there was a huge chance that our boundaries overlapped... and this would make us impossible.

As for everything I said from then on, each sound that came out of your mouth, when not silent, was a bridge for whatever else I added:

- Mm-hmm…

I continued my words and my flow of pain and bitterness, realising in that moment (and until today) that I could not remember the last time we kissed (...was it maybe in the shower, when I finally decided to trust your welcoming invitation, and I brought a shower gel so I wouldn't take advantage of your hospitality?). I did remember, though, the wise proverb I learned many years ago and that now came in handy: "El Silencio otorga."

- ...I have been truly sad for days, understanding your punishing silence as the answer to my question. 

- ...

(I was irrational and full of fears; 

maybe asking you was even a mistake. 

But I needed it. So much.)

- I cannot be sorry for standing on my ground, but I do apologise profoundly for the pain I could have caused you.

- ...

Your silence made me feel in control and also like a fool. 

Was I imagining that your muteness was the scission that would separate our paths, irreparably? 

- I thank you so much for the time we spent. It had been years since I felt something so right, even in the wrongs. My brain is full of new connections and the beautiful experiences that you gave me.

- ...

I got used to your quietness

while questioning everything inside my head. 

Was it all just there, in the end, only in my head? 

I remembered then the time you smiled while writing down my birthday on your phone. "It’s not necessary", I told you, visibly blushing. "It is", you replied, keeping your genuine, beautiful smile. 

No, it wasn't all only in my head.

But I'll never really know it.

Moments later we arrived at the point where our paths were as well, this time literally, separating. I wanted to hold the tears until you couldn't see me anymore (I know how much you hate tears). I swallowed the pain again, wrapped up my love and my five senses, my haikus and my expectations, and gave us both closure when I hugged you for the last time:

- Thank you so much for everything, Cutie Pie.

- Yeah, thank you for the great dances tonight.

You left and left me confused by your phrase, as if your breakup through my words had not taken place just a few minutes before.

Now alone (in more than one layer), I looked at the bag of birthday presents you gave me... The same one you asked me to check once no one was around.

There, among senses and thoughtfulness, 

was the camisole I forgot at your place 

the last time we cuddled.

I guess that was enough message for you to send,

man of few words and even fewer emotions;

my Marlboro man…

...you still have my shower gel though, 

my favourite thief.

Orgasm (Part I)

You asked me to describe to you how a woman's orgasm feels while I was lying next to you and stroking the hair on your naked chest. I then blinked my eyelashes against your cheeks in a butterfly kiss, and playfully told you: Give it to me and I'll tell you.

You smile, look into my eyes, softly caress my naked shoulders and kiss my neck. A sudden wave of goosebumps takes over my ears and the back of my head. I close my eyes and let you act with your lips and tongue. I intertwine my fingertips with your hair and the back of your neck, and I feel your skin getting the rush of pleasure from my touch. 

You keep exploring me while smoothly landing on my chest. Your cold hands, with the slightest touch, caress my breasts. Your fingers prepare my areolas and nipples and make them hard by the touch (covered by goosebumps that pursue you like a wave), just to offer them then the perfect contrast with your warm lips and your wet tongue. Softly, your mouth makes my skin give in while my spine reacts making an arc and my hips retreat back to offer you even more of me. 

You tease me and go to the sides of my torso. I curl up and laugh... A more insecure man would wonder why, but you... you smile back at me, take me by my wrists and shush me with a kiss before taking over again. This time I don't laugh, I don't even smile. I sigh deeply and caress your hair while you keep kissing me down my belly at the same pace as my breathing. There's no need for music; our dance is dictated by our breaths, the pulses of our hearts, and the waves of pleasure that keep going after you.

You turn me upside down and caress the sides of my hips and glutes. The temperature of your hands makes me hyperventilate in excitement while the wave of goosebumps just comes all the way after your fingers again, like the Sea in the eternal, impossible chase after the Moon. You kiss the back of my legs. At this point, my respiration turns into a beg... Give me more. 

You turn me on my back again and keep kissing the inner side of my knees. Instictively, I spread my legs, trying to hold back the moaning that is taking over, from the center of my body, all the way up to my voice. Your hands keep summoning the wave of pleasure that my skin so desperately follows. You give me exactly what I want: Cold, warm, soft, hard, wet, slow... and wet again. 

You reach my thighs with your kisses and I lift my back to see you and caress your head and hair, and wrap my legs around you. You get to my centre, not surprised by all the wetness that is already waiting for your wet mouth. Gloriously, you join the Moon, now eclipsed in the tip of your tongue, with the waves of my sea.

You stay there and I lie back down. In circular motions, your tongue captivates me as the waves concentrate and hold back in my very core. I hold your hair, and my pelvic floor starts a first slow, then a strong sway while I hold you tight.

While coming and going, the waves take on a life on their own, pull my pelvis up from there, and elevate, suspend, and blend all my senses into one. For three, or ten seconds or hours, the waves of my unified, tsunamic sense, come back to every corner of my body; first shyly, then furiously, with cold, warm, soft, hard, wet, slow, love, hate, warm, wet...

and love again.

From my centre to my toes, my fingertips, my nipples and my scalp, the waves hit until they slowly fade away, and a breeze of peace comes back to my mouth in a kiss from your Moonful, wet lips. 

I try to articulate some words but it's too soon. 

You look at me with your indescribably beautiful eyes and smile. 

No need for words, 

now you know.

I smile back and climb on top of you while wrapping your neck in my hands.

Your turn.

The price of growing.

I started this entry, weeks ago, under the title "Nostalgia". It invaded me at that time as much as it does now and yet, in the big picture, this is nothing more than a superficial layer for a much deeper structural feeling.

And well, as curiosity is my engine and compass, I could not help but -quietly- let the beautiful Nostalgia invade me and penetrate every corner of my day and my dreams, to -from my stillness- observe and feel every nuance and every layer she wanted to show me.

And I reached her centre. 

Nostalgia would be a view of the past from Solitude.

So I approached Solitude.

Solitude, still and silent, 

invaded me and penetrated me as well.

Solitude, still and silent, 

made a lump in my throat.

And I cried bitterly out of Solitude.

I felt, in every tear and every pain, also every name, face, moment, kiss, laugh, idealisation, tenderness, love, insult, mistreatment, devaluation, contempt, disdain, blame, deflection, and cynicism… Resounding mixes of what had to be left behind.

And while it is true that Solitude felt that way, 

it also went through me without leaving wounds.

At her centre, finally,

I saw myself.

Girl-woman.

I saw myself full of scars and scabs. 

Covered in mud, tar, blood, and sweat.

I saw myself tired and hurt, 

but more whole than ever.

Growing up is an absolutely extraordinary journey.

Growing up is also an absolutely painful journey: Not only because the fight with our own demons is hard, painful, and shameful; but also because many, many times, that growth will involve loneliness: from the people who separated their paths from ours as we did not learn in time, and ourselves, since sometimes growing up means also deciding to separate our paths from the people we loved and were important to us... the option of staying would only mean going back on a road that is only meant to go forward, and that will not bring us satisfaction or happiness of any kind.

...And because our own versions of ourselves, which were left behind, also remind us that in those versions we were happier with less (and we accepted the painful, abusive unhappiness as one more ingredient of that status quo). 

And therein lies Nostalgia.

We were born alone.

It is the destiny of Life to meet Death and it is the destiny of every Beginning to meet its End; which does not make the experience of any event less real. If anything, this awareness helps us to live each adventure from the peace of its absolute and ephemeral genuineness.

Perhaps that is why growing is so worth it despite the price one pays: The path to the end becomes peaceful and one begins to find gentle aromas after a journey of thorns.

Perhaps that is why growing is so worth it despite the price one pays: The price of meeting oneself, without fear, is truly impossible to measure.

And all that you will be.

You wanted to be the one 

who offered resilience,

Instead, I ended up comforting your distress 

in the worst day of my life.

You wanted 

to communicate openly,

Instead, I articulated every word 

of the end that you were deciding.

You wanted to be 

the strength and the force,

Instead, I held you when your inner child 

overflowed into his pain.

You tried to read my eyes

while I was feeling your broken, 

silent soul.

You begged me 

to fight for you

and I love you

I love you so much

that -with this love and tenderness 

that I used to open a door for you-

I let you now leave for good

while I bless your way out.

First, because I love you.

Second, because you weren’t in the end 

who you said you would be.

Deal?

As the number of full moons that I’ll have the pleasure to see while holding your hand is limited;

as the number of fights that we have ahead might just be a bit more than the number of full moons;

as the times my index will “poup” the tip of your nose -and the fun, entertaining times in between- are falling into the countdown of an imminent end like a cracked hourglass…

I propose you to enjoy this ride with the safe,

temporary and total adrenaline that a roller coaster offers:

Imagine, just for a moment,

that I am your person

and not only a bridge;

Let me imagine that I’ll have the pleasure 

to keep exploring how it feels

when Love and Life meet.

Atomically speaking

Each of our atoms, organized together to allow literally everything in the universe to exist (and allow us to breathe and pulse), is a protonic/neutronic nucleus that manages such a powerful electromagnetic force that electrons faithfully orbit around it, without ever separating.

If, at any point, this fundamental nature changed and the force of atoms stopped pulling (and pushing) its content in the perfect balance it does, we (we, The Universe) would fade away, passing through each other into an unimaginable nothing. 

What makes this immensely powerful force so fascinating (besides the fact that we are at the fragile mercy of its nature) is that at an atomic level, there is no touching: Every time we (The Universe and its content) crash into something else, the reality is that the condensation of atoms from each part squeeze together without overlapping (nor touching) to keep their natural state as intact as possible, and reject the other one for the sake of each's own nature.

So, at an atomic level, our sense of touch is nothing but our electromagnetic field rejecting the forces of others.

And yet, at an atomic, molecular, cellular, sensory level, is the rejection of your electromagnetic field the one I yearn for. 

On the tip of my fingers;

at the bottom of my heart;

and somewhere between my eyes and my ears,

where nothing and everything blend to build up my world.

At an atomic level, my neurons reject each other by connecting new paths to understand the beauty of this new, meaning·full experience. 

What happens inside these paths though (where even my dreams seem to realistically recall your no-touch, from your lips to my nose) is a complete mystery.

There, I no longer know if the laws of physics 

play any game 

or if this new way of being happy 

melds cosmic and sacred energies together 

into a whole

and bloom from them.

(Does it matter? 

Definitely not)

While this finite timeframe allows us not to touch bodymindheart, I'll surrender to this infinite sweet, unforgettably en·joy·able rejection.

...And a new door in my heart will have your name on it.

The letter I never sent

Dear you (or dearest, or beloved you):

It is time for this letter to reach your hands, your eyes, or any sense that allows you to absorb as much as I try to convey in this letter.

Much has happened since I last heard from you. Whether it was two months ago or twenty years ago in Earth time, the different paths that are travelled in each act, step and error, can turn just one day into an entire eternity.

I write this letter to you with a unique and universal intention.

What I never said (and/or what I never let you say) became dozens (sometimes hundreds) of paths called "what if...?". Not only because of the possible (probably more conciliatory) way out that these paths would have offered; but also because in many of them you would still be here, in my life, perhaps by my side... or perhaps I would still be on your radar.

However, as I write this letter I also think about whether those "what ifs" would have also meant that who I am now, would not exist in the form that I have (you know, a different crystal in the kaleidoscope and a small turn of a couple of degrees fundamentally changes the large scale). And maybe it is thanks to you - and/or maybe it is thanks to your absence - that I am now who I am... maybe removing you (without saying or letting you say) was key so that in this present, my kaleidoscope with its shapes and colours as they are today, finds me at a point I never dreamed of being.

What would happen if, in this set of crystals, I met you again? What would happen if, in this set of crystals, I met you for the first time? Would I have understood from the beginning that you had to leave my life as soon as possible? Would you have understood it? Would you have perhaps made that decision much earlier than me?

Does it matter?

Probably not.

And yet here I am, tracing paths of what could -or could not- have been if our paths had not separated the way they did.

Every wound, every difference, every toxicity, every comment and even every blow, led me by reason or force to question my ways, my decisions and my reactions. More or less awake, I learned that the only way to survive is to question even the ground I walk on. And that was the road that brings me here and now, to this extremely complex and fractal specific moment, to write this letter to you.

Above all,

Thank you.

I would not have done it without you.

Dear you (or dearest, or beloved you), we may never meet face to face again. I may no longer exist on your radar and that's okay, I'm glad you've moved forward in the direction Life had for you (I'm even happier if this direction has brought you joy). You are still in mine, undoubtedly because something unresolved kept beating between my ears and my heart. That is why I've written this letter.

Perhaps,

as a kind of ritual or spell,

writing it will allow me to untie a thousand knots at once to continue on my journey.

I will then carry, without this knot of you, still something of you in me:

Your memory,

Your influence,

and perhaps even,

your pain (and mine).

All of the above, I guarantee you, 

transmuted into different forms of love.

Receive from me the most cordial greeting in the way you prefer.

And my deepest gratitude for having been part of my life.

S.

A loving goodbye.

Journeys.

Journeys begin, and journeys end.

Many of them will never begin, 

but all of them will end

(the journey of this specific writing,

the journey we start with the ones we've chosen to love,

and absolutely and definitely, the journey that brings me here, to write these lines, while I breathe and beat on the other side of the screen).

Many journeys I ended with so much pain that I decided to cause it too. 

Many others were so unbearable, that I soothed the pain with just enough venom to keep me alive and unfeeling.

And more times than I can admit, they even left me with a temporal void that throbbed insipidly inside my chest, while my body made all possible efforts to keep me alive and rebuild my heart.

Hearts, 

loves, 

losses, 

tears over books and words, 

and sometimes over numbers 

(dates and algebra).

What I never expected aeons ago was to meet the loves I'm losing now while this new, resilient, reshaped and a hundred times revived heart faces the pain 

without escaping it, 

without hurting back, 

And without needing anything but water to keep it flowing and floating, among the tears of joy, love, sadness, melancholy and hope that the end of this journey brings.

Why now? Why this way? Why this moment?

(...Why not?) 

Perhaps because this time, when I chose to love you (and learn from you, grow with you, and face my demons and triggers through you), I did it knowing that the price to pay would be this pain by the end of the journey

(but of all people, you were worth it).

I give myself entirely, completely, to the love and pain I feel now.
The lesson this time will be feeling the sweet pain and the sour happiness that the certainty of an end (like no other phenomenon in the world) gives.

Without knowing how long it would last, I began this journey of loving you how I now know I can. 

And the end arrived and held our hands telling us the biggest lesson: 

The healing power of a loving goodbye.

I love you. 

I'll always remember you.

Thank you, infinitely, for this journey.

S.

Haiku of a love story.

I meet you at night,

your heart takes over the place,

you start existing.

I open a door,

softly, gently, you come in:

Slowly, I'm falling.

Shy at first touch,

you taste the coffee of my lips,

I taste your rum.

Back to the moonlight,

I now dream, no sense of sleep:

Sweet, sweat, hard, you dreams.

On the rails we kiss,

I hug you over two wheels,

you kiss me naked.

I fear my wounds; 

you heal every doubt away:

my heart takes over.

Love at first sense.

There is much talk about the cliché of love at first sight.

It is not surprising that our eyes, in charge of processing in milliseconds what is presented to them, are the ones that issue the first judgment on the potential security, compatibility, complicity, and well-being that another person can offer us. It is not a coincidence either: this split-second judgment is the result of hundreds of thousands of years of evolution, of trial and error by ancestors who survived to leave imprinted in our brains -and forged in fire- what "should be". However, this sense suffers, possibly more than any other, from flaws: Without going any further, the Thatcher illusion shows us that the world of visual perception can be completely fooled, and it snatches away in a simple turn of 180° what we took for granted.

Not only that: The guarantee of love at first sight is not something that everyone who possesses it can enjoy. Here I am stopping at a fairly large subgroup, although often unaware of their disability: those who suffer from prosopagnosia or face blindness. How can we trust a sense that is already fragile, if every day when we look in the mirror it shows us a completely new figure? How can we be able to discover others, to take solace in a familiar look, if our own does not offer us the warmth of recognizing ourselves?

Having established then the little reliability offered by the so-called "love at first sight", I would like us to divert our gaze (what an irony, isn't it?) to other senses; senses that with a powerful (and oxymoronic) subtlety are capable of enveloping us in emotions to which the body, in its profound totality, reacts.

Imagine, for example, dancing with closed eyes, one by one, to a soft melody.

Imagine that through a warm rhythm, you discover how your blood begins to pulse in unison with another pulse and another body and that, to the gentle beat of the rhythmic sound, your heart throbs inside you and within another chest. The music then becomes white noise and the beats in unison are the only thing that marks the rhythm in the silence of that incipient intimacy.

The breathing then begins its path. Dainty at first, through a chest that expands and rests like waves in a deserted bay, the touch makes its way into a path that first partially sensitizes and then, as if it was a rising night storm, reshapes through each warm, cold, sweaty, soft and hard contact. The sensitivity is such that a simple cheek-to-cheek encounter shakes, wave by wave, the deepest part of the lower back; and fragile fingers around the neck are capable of evoking a deep, exquisite and painful current of desire. The breathing, amid the storm, remains as a solitary beacon to keep us awake and conscious while every pore is intoxicated and drowned in the stimulus of feeling.

Each aroma has its own moment of prominence: the sweet presence of a perfume that like a first breeze announces the imminent arrival of the storm; the velvety gust of the aroma on the skin; the almost accidental stimulus of warm hair, and the sensation of lost swaying as we delve into the subtlety of a breath running through the ear, like a blessed promise to the eternal return to the skin that shudders and subsides again.

On rare occasions, the sensitive accumulation converges in the miracle of a kiss. Taste then becomes the pool where the flow of emotions and other senses strand, and all at the same time become one: A fresh taste of mint that evokes the aroma of a field in summer; a hint of crystalline white wine, like glasses when toasting; a subtle taste of coffee that, as a central note, makes the skin crawl from the lips to the heart; and a dreamy heterochromia that opens, discovers, feels and surrenders to the gift of intimacy.

In the face of the intense sensorial immensity offered by the storm of everything, and culminated by two glances that discover each other for the first time after having seen each other a thousand times before... isn't it not only possible but imminent for one to feel love, even if it is for a moment? What form or remedy can Love have when the last sense that awakens it is sight? Isn't time to re•claim the phrase "love at first sight," since in reality sight only offers a fleeting moment that pales in comparison to the presence of a seductive sensory consistency?

Perhaps Love, like all human feelings, prefers to obey constant and holistic patterns. 

Perhaps that is why I am so defiantly and categorically opposed to the idea that the most celebrated pillar is also the most fragile of all...

And that is definitely why I prefer to call it "Love at first sense."

Dancetasy

My face rests on your chest while I hear the beats of the music and imagine a common pulse with the beats of your heart. I feel the relaxation that involves us, in the middle of the silence and the darkness, while your chin lies on my head. Softly, with the tips of your fingers, you caress my shoulders, go down my arms, and hold my wrists gently before landing on the back of my hand. Once there, you embrace my waist while my hands climb their way to your shoulders, and caress the back of your neck. 

You whisper "What is your name?".  I chuckle. "I told you already", and look into your eyes to see if you are playing games or simply teasing. "And yours?", you look me in the eye, as if you were loss for words; "I don't know anymore". "Me neither", I reply.

I rest my face on your chest again; this time, your hands around my waist and my hands around your neck give us a tense proximity. Your hands go slightly down and this motion joins our hips together and to the rhythm. The cadence of the music playing in the background feels like a perfect foreplay for what is to come. I feel how your breathing counteracts the mildness of the tempo. 

Everything feels blurry around me, and the only certainty relies in the texture of your chest and the smell of your skin. My hands navigate slowly from your neck to your shoulders, from your shoulders to your blades, from your blades to your waist. The pressure of our movement increases, as well as our breathing. 

The music is gone, I don't know since when, and it doesn't matter. 

We keep moving to an imaginary melody played by our bodies, by our breathing, by our caressing. Slowly, but surely, the built-up tension subsides and opens a path for a deep, tender hug. 

"Sina?" I smile. "Sure". "Would you like to come to my place for a cup of coffee?". I smile again. The clumsy nervousness in your voice is enough for me to say yes without a doubt. We walk together while talking about everything that comes to our minds, as if we were trying to catch up on who we are, before bestowing our naked fragility on each other.

The night was beyond anything imaginable. The unbearable passion of a first time danced as well with the calmed comfort of a body kissed a thousand times. 

I wake up next to you and watch you sleep for a bit before deciding to get up. You open your eyes and look at me for a second, as if you were first computing my presence around you, and then you smile,

"Hi", you say.

I look at you with the deepest love, and I see how much this scares you. I restrain my facial expression and go along. "Good morning. I'll make breakfast".

"You don't have to", you reply.

"Of course I do. Stay in bed, we still have two hours before the kids come with their spouses and we have our family trip".

I can't bear another moment of your confusion. I clean my tears before I go downstairs. In 30 minutes, you will have forgotten again.

...But until your body forgets how to move too, we will still have our evening dances.

Take a bow

Hoy llueve. 

Conduzco por la carretera con especial cuidado mientras escucho una canción que me recuerda a ti.

La lluvia también me lleva a un recuerdo, uno que me despedía de ti con la sensación de que no te volvería a ver. También entonces, tras decirte adiós, conducía sobre una húmeda y resbaladiza carretera.

Escuchaba yo entonces, una y otra vez, "Take a bow", como si en su verso, "say goodbye" pudiera encontrar una pista que me ayudara a descifrar qué diablos había pasado tras el último beso que me diste.

Subí a mi auto en medio de la garúa (tal como lo hice hoy antes de subir), tras una noche de dulce, apasionado y triste amor, todo junto. Desnuda sobre la cama, te besaba y me acunaba en tus brazos mientras intentaba contener mis lágrimas. Finalmente, no pude.

Me miraste asustado pensando que algo había pasado.

La noticia de tu inminente partida había pasado. Y por alguna forma extraña de inocencia o ingenuidad (y aunque te conocí sabiendo que habría un adiós), no podía procesar que te fueras.

Sacudo el recuerdo de mi cabeza para mitigar mi piel erizada. No quiero ceder a la emoción. Pongo el aire caliente al tiempo que sigue sonando la canción.

Mis lágrimas fueron incontenibles y entendiste qué pasaba. Me dijiste "Esto es hermoso". No pude entender qué podía ser hermoso de la escena sino hasta que lo verbalizaste: "Me siento amado".

Mis oídos zumbaron. Yo aún no sabía. Lo sentía y latía dentro de mí, pero no tenía un nombre.

Ahora lo tenía. Era amor.

Te estaba amando. Pasó que, sin buscarlo, mi pecho florecia a tus rayos. Y a ti te parecía hermoso.

No dormí bien esa noche. Siempre que dormimos juntos, el contacto de nuestra piel era necesario y apacible, pero yo no podía sentir el calor de tu piel esa noche. Dolía de una forma que, tal como mi amor, tampoco lograba definir. Busqué mi propio espacio, mientras, y entre sueños, me buscabas y volvías a tocarme. Repetí el rito hasta que quedé al borde de la cama y tú abrazándome, siempre dormido. Me resigné y dejé que doliera, dejé que las lágrimas cayeran y  dejé que el sueño me alcanzara en medio de ese escenario. No era fácil, pero era la última vez que sentía también tu desnudez, así que cerré mis ojos y disfruté y sufrí de tu piel hasta que concilié el sueño.

...Días después, me confesaste que, en tu propio camino de regreso, lloraste también mi eventual ausencia.

Lo que yo no te confesé es que aquella mañana de lluvia, tal como ahora, los limpiaparabrisas de mi auto funcionaban perfectamente bien... y aun así fueron incapaces de detener mis lágrimas.

A meta approximation to a Schrödinger's heartbreak.

For a long time, I thought about writing down your effect on me, and the recurrent image was the effect of the Moon over the sea, or Tides. 

Now, when there's no left time, nor anything else to win or lose, the image becomes not only on hand, but also the most beautiful, and bittersweet, way to represent the circumstances.

My dear Eclipse:

This will be the letter of Schrödinger: I might or might not send it, and if I do, it might or might not arrive the way and shape it is now. At the moment, I just write down my thoughts and feelings, hoping to release them through the tension that has built up inside me with time.

This time without you hasn't been easy; the moment I met you and decided to make you part of my life for as long as it lasted, came for me with the full commitment to create a place for you in my heart. For me, one becomes unique the minute they say something that brings them light so I can see their phases... And that is how you appeared in my life, with light and uniqueness. Having you around wasn't only easy, it was also an immense opportunity to learn from you and me, gravity and waves. Moreover, your mere presence meant, in many ways, more than you can now imagine. 

That being said, yours is not a space I can replace or empty, not now, not ever: it is and will be there with endearment and care. Also, for now, with new pain; having left you behind was beyond doubt a painful and hard decision, not only because the idea of doing it before your appearance felt like missing something that I didn't have in the first place, but also because part of me, deep within, didn't want to and opposed it for a while.

For the way I did it, I deeply apologize. That part hurts me the most because I know it hurt you. Is there anything you could or should have done differently? I cannot put myself or you into that position, because interactions themselves are enough to change us and potentially trigger us. Hoping for you to do something differently would've meant for you, changing your own crescent path in nature; and for me, to focus on factors that I can't control rather than the only ones I can, such as who I am, what I can do about it, what deep currents and storms are still there and why, or even if I deserve to grow as a force of nature with your orbit around. I am sorry right now if these words and waves come across as disturbing or selfish, I think part of me knows that part of you might have questions (or not), and overall, all of me knows that you didn't deserve the way I quit.  

I feel profoundly honoured for the cycle we spent together. I feel thankful for your waning light, for being a mirror more times than I can count, for your gentle ways, for your deep respect, for your ancient knowledge, for the force you brought out of me, and for caring... I could transparently feel it. I am also thankful for your shadows because they made you real and not simply an illusion or a mask.

I'll keep thinking and feeling you until the pain gets released enough to keep the essential beauty that involves what we experienced. As I have already said, the place you have in my heart is deep, loving, and yours. 

Yours, too,

Tide.

Portrait

If I had the ability to draw, I would draw your face as clearly as I would if you were in front of me instead of being miles away. I would start by drawing its unknown outline thanks to the diffuse fog that your long beard offers.

I would draw a semi-frown on your populated and defined eyebrows; a mischievous look in your eyes whose blue I could never define well (perhaps because of the opaque glow that veiled them), and a half-sided smile on your soft and perfect lips.

The full expression would reflect the decision I saw in your eyes the first time you took me by my waist to kiss me in the middle of the height and the darkness.

If I had the ability to draw, I would define your long nose and perfect tip in the middle of that gesture (a gesture that, by the way, would lift your cheekbones and give a certain feline expression to your traits and to the complete attitude).

If I could draw, I would draw your temples with some grey hair, and populate the rest of your hair with wheat fields in autumn... A similar colour would put on your beard, although, to it and its autumn, I would add a red sunset to tint.

If I could draw, however, I still could not fully portray all the details on your face that I have etched on fire, such as the perfume of your cheeks, the softness of your skin, your brief eyelashes or the pearly drops of sweat on your forehead when you made love to me.

No place in the world can portray you, to my eyes, as my memory can. No place in the world, but your own face.

...Who would say that I suffer from face blindness.

The imaginary man.

Once, I fell in love with an imaginary man.

He had a beautiful imaginary smile.

And used to look at me with his imaginary eyes.

His imaginary hands

touched my naked skin.

His imaginary lips

whispered an imaginary love.

My imaginary man

was perfect in my eyes.

My imaginary man

fell in love with an imaginary me.

Some day, my imaginary man,

I will meet a real man,

with a real love

for this real and flawless woman.

But that real man won't have

(not even the half)

the heart that my imaginary man 

dropped to the trash can;

that heart that clings like a vine

to continue flourishing.

My imaginary man

didn't see in the dark

(but he saw nothing but darkness in me).

My imaginary man

was just in my head (everyone says).

But they don't understand 

that my imaginary man

(the one I loved just because he's in my mind),

is the same real man that I will never stop loving.

My imaginary man

will never understand how much I loved him.

Or maybe

(just maybe)

he's so imaginary, 

that even though he understands it,

he never really cared.