Color Me

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There’s a history between my lover and I that I am trying to remember, to make live again through these words, to bring new life to old meaning. There were the times we spent living together in college, the endless nights of drinking and talking. I remember the house on East 15th Street. A small house, technically a three-bedroom, though the third room was half the size of the other two. That is where he lived, his little hole in the world in which he carved out his existence. The small mattress on the floor, a navy blue blanket covering it. I remember his small black desk pushed up against the opposite wall, leaving a thin open track of white carpet in which to step through to get to the sliding glass doors, the large porch and long backyard. He had a tall bookcase against one wall. Dark brown and full of schoolbooks. Literary texts, poetry, and theory. He is an intelligent man.

I remember a night I sat with him on his floor. He had an art book open about the energies of the body, about the microcosms of life. He explained these things to me, showed me the book, the colors coming out of a diagram of a skull, a soul. I didn’t understand it then, but I could feel what he was saying, could sense he was discovering something about himself as he gazed at the words, the artwork.

This is how we created a home—on understanding and sharing. How he saw me through my father’s death, how I thought about him when he wandered off. And I always wanted him around, always wanted to feel our energy fields cross, combine.

Much later, six years after our time on the floor discussing the energies of the body, I will fall asleep on his naked chest. My eyes will be closed to the pitch black room, but I will be woken from my post-sex daze by a striking white light. It does not exist when I open my eyes, but I can feel it in the air, can see it swirling underneath my eyelids. It shifts from each corner, swishes and shimmers across my pupils. I’m seeing a bright white light, I whisper to him from underneath his chin. He asks me to describe it, but I have no words, can only see it with no description. Maybe you’re seeing our energy fields, he says. And with his rough chin hair tickling my forehead, with my hands grazing the hair across his chest, I fall asleep in the ensconcing white light knowing his explanation isn’t absurd.

He tells me now about the dream he had back then, the one that occurred seven years ago when we were living together in a different house. This is a dream he could never forget. This was during his juice fast, when he was trying to rid his body of a crazy feeling, thinking if he took away the toxins perhaps a bit of sanity would return. He was in his room that was a quarter of the size of mine. This is in the house on Olive Street, the one with five bedrooms and a hole in the floor. His bed sat up on stilts, a loft built in order to make more room in his small den of the world.

He lied on the mattress and either fell asleep or passed out from his juice fast in the Texas heat. He slept. And in his dream he traveled to my bed across the hall, and laid down next to me. In this dream, I told him something comforting, some passionate words, I wish I knew what they were, and he says he saw a green light engulf us.

He woke up to that feeling of me, of us.

Seven years later I awake to him in my bed, his back turned towards me as I wrap my right arm around his shoulder. And the moonlight is streaming in through my window, creating a glowing silhouette of this man in my bed. This best friend that became more.

I am moving across the country to be with him. How I can’t resist living with someone who helps me to  see a vibrating orange light after he makes me orgasm, makes me come, yet again.

I have two weeks to go until I can reach out and hold this man again. Two weeks in which my eyes will be dull to the world, will not see the colors of our energies. But then there’s this: a night, on the phone, his voice streaming into my ear. I close my eyes against the want in my chest, hug a pillow to soften this need. The white light returns to my eyes, pulses with each word he says. And I can feel him lying in his own bed, feel him reaching out for his creamy pillows, for me.

He wore a gray shirt the first time he came to visit me, when we saw each other again, and for the first time, and in a different light. Six years had passed. His gray shirt was hidden underneath his black leather jacket, and I saw him walking across the bus terminal, striding in front of me. I was so in awe, so shocked by the fact that his flame of energy was finally near my own, that I couldn’t find my breath to say his name. Then he turned. Then I ran up to him, my red and tan cowboy boots ka-thunking on the white tiled floor. A huge hug, bodies colliding, and I turn into him for our first kiss. He plunges. Eight years of wanting,  of waiting, of knowing, and we finally find our lips together. How I closed my eyes right then and saw yellow. And yes, there were sparks. And yes, they flew. Electricity through the lips, this is what we do, how we love, the colors increasing out of our skulls, our souls.

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2 Responses so far »

  1. 1

    Cheryl said,

    Congratulations!! So, so happy for you.

  2. 2

    Mindy said,

    Beautiful stated! It’s a match made in the universe of stars, energy and loving souls. Be happy, always. I love you, Mom


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