I think of him sometimes. The him he used to be. My friend, my confidante, my sexy soldier. My first love.
We were fire and ice. Fight or fuck. Compromise meant the match burned down to the base and the ice melted just enough for tepid liquid complacency to soothe the singed fingers holding it.
I was whiskey on his wounds. He got drunk on the possibility of Me.
We were not meant to be.
We had our moments though. Bright shining starry moments when we stopped fighting ourselves long enough to stop fighting each other. Moments when galaxies spun inside our eyes and we sent the world up in flames. Moments of clarity. Of joy. Of truth. Of pain.
Of “I love you.”
He was the first.
I don’t say those words to many. It’s an invitation to heartbreak. He taught me that.
He taught me a lot of things.
How to put more spin on my serve. How to lay parquet flooring. How to have an orgasm in complete silence. How to relax enough to let him hold me. God, he was good at that.
I used to climb up on him to sleep. He was… big… and I never had to worry whether I’d steal his air of if he could take my weight. I just climbed on whenever I needed to.
He loved it when I did that. He wanted it, and he proved it, over and over and over again; it is a gift I’ve never received from another. He’d lay on his back and I’d drape myself over him like a blanket, my head against his chest, warm in his embrace. I’d wrap my arms up under his shoulders and frog my knees up against his hips and he’d hold me there ~ petting and soothing and shushing, stroking his big hands over my head, down my back, gently and surely, again and again ~ until I finally unwound enough to fall asleep.
I sleep alone these days. And when I dream, it is not of him.
But I do think of him sometimes.
I think of him…
Of what we had and who we were…
I think of him, that boy I used to know.
I remember him, and smile.