Our first kiss came, and then a week or two later we made love. The air was July, thick with campfire smoke and dandelion. He came to my apartment. It was afternoon.
This is our story.
The sweat of our bodies, already present when he knocks on my door, intensifies. Mingles. I had only recently learned from him not to fear that. This time, the air conditioning stays off.
His soft, long brown hair, no longer parted down the middle but whisked into stormy waves upon my face, neck, chest. A pillow holds my thrashing head. His lips, finding every…single…place. Gently yet commandingly he lowers his body, full, against mine. His form is heavy, solid. Masculine indeed. His lips. His sweet lips. Slowly, he raises his head, his face parallel to mine, hovering over, a few inches away.
Bedroom blinds are drawn, yet there’s enough light to sense the expression in his eyes.
He smiles, and it’s such a curious smile. I know it’s time to say something…because there’s suddenly a bubbling feeling—a heart that is growing hotter, a flame that is rising to some strange end. Without knowing what the words mean and in one breathless burst I say I’ve known you before! My voice sounds strange—deep and husky; it doesn’t sound like mine. His eyes which were so wide open now melt a bit and his smile broadens. Lover pulls his torso upward, legs now straddling my hips. He inhales deeply and speaks. At least, this time, you don’t have to watch me die.
Everything goes black.
I have no choice at this moment but to allow his words. There is a stabbing sensation in my chest. A most horrible pain! I bring my hands to my heart, urgently twisting my torso to the side in a silent request for him to move. I curl like a fetus. There is nothing now but a black swirling empty hole—empty yet not empty, and a wind. A very strong wind. I am a tree, blown over in the storm. I begin to howl violently. I shake, a heaping mess, an insane small child. He rests on his side, front facing my front, embracing. Thankfully, he has a thousand arms.
We hide in bed for hours. Tears; mouths; kisses. We whisper of the past, remembering details from that particular death, and others. I start to write poetry without paper. We unravel the knots by speaking them. Horseback, swords, a nearly-relentless rain. I begin to understand. He has already understood.
Check out more of Anya’s writings at AnyaLight.com and also her book Opening Love, a compassionate guidebook for intentional relationships.