2:47 by Laila Wael

Posted on October 4, 2013 by

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“We aren’t lucky, we are just trying to get a touch of others’ bliss” she whispered to me, the distance between our faces were almost measured by how warm our breaths felt. It almost vanished, her thin pale lips form a wide smile and her front teeth appear. It always remind me of the rabbit that I had when I was a child, I wish I have kissed her, I wish I have leaned in faster, because when I did she ran away and laughed loudly, and disappeared.

“Do you think the stars will tell on us?” she came from behind me, I exhaled nervously. I fumbled with my hands trying to work out a cool smile. Her face dropped, she got closer to me by countable inches, her eyes widens as she comes closer. Her eyes look like honey when sun is reflected through it, or when my mother’s hair , when she decided to go on to the beach and have a tan, or when dad decided to buy me a pony for Christmas. But it doesn’t matter. Those details she can see well through my eyes. She can read them. She places her fingertips on my lips, her skin feels like rose petals at dawn in the spring, her cheek touches mine and I hold on to my chuckle. She somehow never felt real enough, she always felt like inhuman, maybe she was an angle or a broken bird that transferred to a human in my eyes.

“I think the clouds are jealous, and the sun is pecking in to see if we have become one. Wouldn’t every one want love?”  Her lips are curled in a heart form. She always says things that sound like she is speaking a different language, like she is different. She is something else other than us, made of everything delicate, made of everything pale and soft. She is like pink cotton candy although maybe she doesn’t taste like sugar.

We stand so close I touch her hair, the colour of her locks look like it have been washed too much. I hold a lock of hers, and get my fingers through it, tangle the piece around my thumb so that I would feel real. A voice inside me creaks, “This is not a game Marques. You have got to run before the Bolivarian finds you” but I don’t. I stand, so close to her, she smells like wet grass in left-garden on the outskirts of town. She smells like things you don’t smell very often in the city side because it’s not typical. She doesn’t smell like fresh baked bread, or a herb or a flower. She doesn’t smell like objects or plants or animals. She smells like femininity, like softness, like tenderness.

“Don’t let the hurricane get you in the twist, my love. We are all a little sleep when we are awake” she whispered.

“What’s your name?” I asked. I formed the letters in my mouth and I threw them out unashamed of my poorly ordinary used language.

“Names, names, names… what do we got out of names if who named us are buried in coffins my love?” she uttered bluntly. I looked at her eyes again, I leaned in, I could kiss her now and taste her thin lips that form hearts and smiles that make my heart heavy with trouble I haven’t been in yet.

“Don’t. Don’t follow your human instincts now, be me.” She said. She kissed my eyes. She tore my shirt open, and pushed me on the ground. I have never seen a hand so quick, like she was so sure of what she is doing, like she was certain how much force does it need to tear my shirt open or to push me on the ground. She lies on top of me and places her head underneath my left chest, and stays silent.

We lay in the silence of the moment skin to skin and I feel her breath as shallow as the air around us. I feel her bones on my skin, her cheekbones, her collar bones, her pelvis on my body. She curls on my body leaving her head on the same spot. “I like how your heart beats, it sounds like hope”

“What was the saddest thing ever for you?” she raises her head up and looks at my face. I couldn’t. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t ruin everything now, she might have known from my eyes but I couldn’t phrase them out loud “come on, I know” she said softly in sing-song like.

Before I could tell her that the details in my head about her and my parents weren’t real. I never had parents. I never had a pony. I never celebrated Christmas on earth, always under a muddy floor collecting stones and filthy laundry for men who have never felt loved.

Before I could tell her how each part of my body tells a story about a different man, feeling it for a second or more, because they never got the chance with a lady.

Before I could tell her how unwashed I feel when they come and drag me from my ear naked in a chilly November morning just for a show.

Before I could tell her how I really wanted a dog to bite everyone I ever lived with. Before I could tell her, before anything…

“Son of a bitch, I know you were a tosser from the beginning, wake up you fool!”

And the holy clock didn’t even tick a full hour yet.

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