Whenever I would mention you, I’d say something dramatic like,
“My skin color murdered my first love.”
The truth is, you were never there with me.
Seven years of holding on to you, of re-living what I considered my first kiss.
If I close my eyes for longer than a few seconds – you’re there, under that lapa… in that garden where I lived out most of my childhood; your lips and mine seemed to have forgotten for a moment how to exist without each other, and I still remember the sweet scent of you… somewhere between cinnamon, coconut and honey with a tinge of camphor.
Seven years of being ready to take you back if you’d only asked… and you did ask… just to change your mind. Over, and over…
I wanted to get into the details… how loving you made me fluid in my ability to give of myself physically because knowing that was one aspect of me I never shared with you… I wanted to make sure that when you allowed me to touch you – you’d know that I was your home. That your hands were meant to roam the atlas on my skin.
I guess the most disappointing part of the last eleven years; is that after everything – I am letting you go without feeling about it.
I never gave up on you. Not for a second, even after I got over you… I cared and I searched and when I found you; you were so eager to spend time with me; until I realized that you’d never change your mind about me. You have conditioned yourself to have only a negative response to my part in your life… to use, to hurt, to disregard.
So “my angel”… I truly hope you remain blissfully ignorant about the depth of my love for you; especially when I am no longer around for you to hurt anymore.