“do you like black licorice?” he asks me nonchalantly in our dimly lit kitchen.
“I love it.” I say enthusiastically.
“of course you do.” he laughs
This happens a lot.
It happens all the fucking time.
It’s ridiculous to live in as much fear as we do about this love, when the signs are everywhere.
This love is meant to be.
No, it’s not just the fact that we both like black licorice. Those are just small reminders of the bigger things.
Reminders that we are in this, that it’s scary, but we’re in it.
Our story ain’t typical.
Well, maybe it is.
It’s typical in that social media had a lot to do with us knowing of each other. Something I am both repulsed by and eternally grateful for.
We met back in December, during the Gemini Full Moon and the first day of Mercury in Retrograde. It was destined.
We spoke of secret things for hours, laughed, for hours, made up reasons to stay a little longer for hours.
“Wanna smoke some weed?”
“Wanna have a drink?”
“Wanna drive around and find a view of the Full Moon?
“Wanna park and talk about our fears, our pasts, and what we’re looking for in a partner?”
“Wanna fall in love, but pretend that we’re not and just act awkwardly towards each other for about a week until we give in on your birthday after the poetry night you just hosted?”
It only took a week to get out our feelings, but it took five months to marry him.
Now, almost nine months in, much has happened.
An amount of “much” that we weren’t necessarily ready for.
We have fallen in love and out of love and in love again.
We have let go of friends, and made honesty our main dish.
We have indulged in our filth and enveloped it with our mouths and hearts.
We have been jealous, and made love on rooftops, done laundry, taken baths in bloody water, gone to sleep mad, woken up regretful, wrote poems about each other, gotten drunk, made love, fucked like bandits and been disappointed in each other over and over again.
When you meet your match it’s hard to not own your shit.
It’s hard to pretend and go on as before.
We took our time to get here.
Didn’t even kiss at first, just let the energies grow until they caught fire.
His cock scared me.
The size of it was almost as big as the love I kept hidden from him.
I was terrified of fucking him, knowing that once we did, the hooks were on.
It was over.
In a way, we weren’t ready for such wings.
We weren’t ready for the moment we had asked for, so we ran. We made up excuses, and tried to break the union in order to not endure the plan that we had beckoned.
“Man plans, God laughs.”
We hid during our courtship, afraid of being caught.
But we found nooks and sat there rooted in this thing.
Lips quivering, words clogged, us mute.
He kept tabs on how I took my coffee, on the fact that I can’t shower with anyone because it triggers me.
He remembered that I enjoyed those hard tamarind candies from the liquor store up the street from his apartment. He looked at me as if to memorize my every blemish. He’d squeeze my body as if he wanted to watch me burst into pieces he could pick up and put back together.
Nervous hands, nervous fingers nervous eyes.
Nervous mouths, nervous words, nervous drinks had in dark bars, nervous kisses in street corners.
Nervous rides back to his place after my therapy session.
Nervous love making on Winter Solstice.
The nerves remain, only they look a lot like doubts and fears.
Those things we work daily to kill.
We are exhausted, but smiling.
We are trilling with an army of two.
We walk around with each other in the crevices of our dirty fingernails.
We can taste each other in our favorite foods.
In his absence, I am not alone.
Where he is, is where I’m at.
I live in his paints, and he lives on the tip of my pen.