Give me Hemingway: “To be able to say, ‘I have loved this person, we had a hell of a nice time together, it’s over but in a way it will never be over and I do know that I for sure loved this person’, to be able to say that and mean it, that’s rare, señor. That’s rare and valuable.”
Give me my hand chasing his on the days it will feel like we are slipping in between each other’s fingers; the steady reassurance of his warm body when we will have become earthquakes, all splitting seams and silence.
Give me dancing.
Give me long afternoons of nothingness, windows open on rain, the sheets an unmade mess. The sound of his quiet breathing and the stillness, hours gone.
Give me a moment that feels like forever. It doesn’t matter that it isn’t; it only matters that we feel like it is. The taste of his sweat and the weight of his body on nights with air so thick and cloying that sleep eludes us.
Give me my teeth on the round of his shoulder; a half-kiss when there is nothing left to say.