It's been years, and I still dream about you--your queenly roman nose, straight and pale below the soft fluff of your bangs, and your chin, as it leans on your hand, and then off it, as you lean forward with the weird, theatening intensity we both have when curious, or passionate.
I want to place my lips on your forehead, and whisper into your brain that you will be safe. I remember so vividly the evening I listened to you, gently touching your tired scalp with my fingers twirling in your long, light hair--hair very different from my heavy Asian thickness, hair that like you seemed like a wisp in the wind. You used to walk on tip-toe like a fairy, like my little sister did.
I love you more with the passing distance, through space and time. I was never ever so happy as with you, not in the entirety of my life. Not with my husband, and certainly not with yours, not without you. You don't remember calling for you not to leave us alone? I despise your husband more with each passing month. It's sad, because I do remember, factually, loving him very much, and I factually recall a beautiful hike, and medical lessons, and playing with him, and you, and the children, but my actual feelings, beyond the facts, have melted and rotted past sweetness into this fetid disgust, rank with flesh maggots. I don't know if it was meat that rotted, or eggs, under the syrupy crystallized rotten fruit, and it used to bother me that I don't know--that I can't tell if I ever had pure joy around him, or if there was always this slight disgust, because I remember the moment you said you thought he was good-looking, and I wanted to laugh in your face, and I remember the moment when I met him that my first instinct was to be afraid of him. Which seems ridiculous, factually, because I know he was a friend, and I know I am responsible for Paradise Lost, but I also know those moments were true, and that what happened afterwards was true, and that right now, it is true that I despise him.
I despise him, and I despise the churches of men that warped the way you see humans and sexuality so you'll trust the wrong people and okay the worst human abuses, because if it were not for them, you and I would be together, still. I would still take your cooking to work with me; I would still do your dishes; I would still hold your children, and brush their wispy fairy hair, and tell them stories.
The last dream I had, you and I met in a coffee shop, and sat and talked while the children played. There was no one else. And you met my eyes, and you smiled.
I want to place my lips on your forehead, and whisper into your brain that you will be safe. I remember so vividly the evening I listened to you, gently touching your tired scalp with my fingers twirling in your long, light hair--hair very different from my heavy Asian thickness, hair that like you seemed like a wisp in the wind. You used to walk on tip-toe like a fairy, like my little sister did.
I love you more with the passing distance, through space and time. I was never ever so happy as with you, not in the entirety of my life. Not with my husband, and certainly not with yours, not without you. You don't remember calling for you not to leave us alone? I despise your husband more with each passing month. It's sad, because I do remember, factually, loving him very much, and I factually recall a beautiful hike, and medical lessons, and playing with him, and you, and the children, but my actual feelings, beyond the facts, have melted and rotted past sweetness into this fetid disgust, rank with flesh maggots. I don't know if it was meat that rotted, or eggs, under the syrupy crystallized rotten fruit, and it used to bother me that I don't know--that I can't tell if I ever had pure joy around him, or if there was always this slight disgust, because I remember the moment you said you thought he was good-looking, and I wanted to laugh in your face, and I remember the moment when I met him that my first instinct was to be afraid of him. Which seems ridiculous, factually, because I know he was a friend, and I know I am responsible for Paradise Lost, but I also know those moments were true, and that what happened afterwards was true, and that right now, it is true that I despise him.
I despise him, and I despise the churches of men that warped the way you see humans and sexuality so you'll trust the wrong people and okay the worst human abuses, because if it were not for them, you and I would be together, still. I would still take your cooking to work with me; I would still do your dishes; I would still hold your children, and brush their wispy fairy hair, and tell them stories.
The last dream I had, you and I met in a coffee shop, and sat and talked while the children played. There was no one else. And you met my eyes, and you smiled.
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