Today I could feel him. It wasn’t as remembering generally goes – a particular recollection of a wave of time or specific event – but the tangibility of his essence fluttering into my mind and lingering long enough to transcend the simplicity of a memory. His presence was vivid, like he was standing right there. The curve of his smile. The texture of his lips stretching to glide over his teeth. The feeling that passes through me when I’m inches away from his twinkling, deep blue eyes. The often instantaneous metamorphosis of his eyes from a unique and playful wildness to a calming warmth conveying depth and connection. The slight tilt of forehead back, bringing his chin up as he laughs. What that sounds like. Recalling the weight of his head resting on my lap – eyes closed – as I would gently move my fingers along his eyebrows and through his hair. A pause at his hair. A modest moment dedicated to all its different stages – shoulder-length light curls, a shorter cut, the transitional phase between the two where I stood in a bathroom, his locks between the fingers of one hand, cold scissors in the other, snipping and clipping away, strands drifting on the porcelain and tile below. His tussled golden brown locks lying peacefully against his pillow as I would awaken next to him (because every once in a while its nice to sleep near close friends) – the sun streaming through the window and onto his sleeping figure. The way his colorful blankets tucked around his outline – His tan, perfect feet jetting past the blankets reach and off the end of the bed. The detail of his big toes – the hair growing near the knuckle, the way his toenails grew wide and rounded past the edge of flesh. The figure I had grown so accustomed to hidden beneath those blankets. His muscular legs, chiseled calves. The bright-green, silk-like boxers with the vibrant pink pith of animated guavas he wore. Every massage I gave added detail to my internal map of his smooth, arched back. The dip from his raised shoulder blades to the arch of his lower back. The curve from his neck, just below his ear, along his shoulder and down his arm, felt with my open palm and loosely curling fingers. The strength conveyed in his chest from his shoulders to the band of his pants. His confident, yet relaxed posture. And though he rarely wore purple, a mysterious collection of purple lint hid inside his belly button. There was an unmistakable, calming ability to his embrace. His hands. His voice. The way he would string words together to create meaning. Today I could feel him. Again, not through the recollection of a specific memory or two elicited by some symbol or photograph, but an artful recreation of his essence arranged using muscle memory from touching him as well as vivid attention to aesthetic detail - every feature, every motion or movement. An intensity of observation which I, until presently, never knew the extent of. An intensity of observation whose source could only be Love. Not love accompanied by lust, longing, expectation, confusion or questioning, but Love in its purest form. A Love that took hold without me knowing the extent of it. A Love that is so there, that it doesn’t need to be shouted from the rooftops or even whispered. A love that needs no acknowledgement in return. A Love that only makes sense to give away for free.
