I miss the feeling of an arm around my shoulder, the warm sweat of hands joining; always a voice awaiting at the end of the line, at a place to crash, a lap to rest my heavy head on.
I miss the cold touch of sheets on naked limbs, legs unraveling like stories yet untold.
Company, tears, fights
the feeling of being
I miss conversations turning into disputes, cries. Loving to hate your orange pants,
loving to hate or to love
every little thing.
Walking in the rain on first dates; I miss first kisses and warm, humid days spent worried about sex, about time: banalities that encompass life. I miss sharing literature, music, words, laughter, meals, counting in another–counting bars behind my head–, talking amid parentheses coming to an end.
I miss fear, Portuguese lessons, watching series or movies and falling asleep; I miss the security, the lack of calm, the feeling that rain will pour over our heads and we will walk, we will hide beneath doorsills and shield our words with insecurities. I miss knowing that storms will come, thunder will fall– we will go on and drown in the togetherness that comes, to its final resolution, in a belonging of lips, of limbs, of time.
If I could do things again