I remember all these things, yet I do not miss you one bit. Then I begin to question if you were mine to have Or if I was yours to play with. Like when you smiled, the dimples that jutted from your cheeks were like raindrops falling from the gutter to the ground causing splash erosion. Like your broken incisor that set you apart whenever you spoke so eloquently with ardor about your dreams and of places that you wished to visit. I remember you telling me that the first place you’d love to visit was Rwanda. Even as I dreamt big, I said I preferred Canada, but you told me that it was cold, and you’ve always loved snow and teddy bears, maybe I could be wild enough to show you one. I pictured us skating in the snow holding hands, I recall your laughter, the way it exploded in my eardrums like a genetic symphony of music that only played in my DNA. Occasionally, I’d let you go then watch you stagger alone, I recall you screaming, shouting my name, because you knew that you’d trip and roll on. But I’d catch you before you hit the ground.
Then we’d attend Ed Sheeran’s concert in Amsterdam, during a slow evening weekend. On that day we’d hope that he only sung our favorite song. And there, on the plain fields of Amsterdam Arena, We’d sit, your legs gently curved around me that you’d swore to keep me in between for the rest of your life; through the flickers of light, and the serene strings of the guitar I’d put my arms around you, gently stroking your hair, solemnly humming to the lyrics of sunburn. In that moment we’d be lost in each other’s frenzy, thinking that time stood still, that we were the only ones in the concert, and Ed Sheeran was singing just for us. Then I’d kiss your lips. Then pause. Open my eyes to find you smiling back at me. Then kiss you again, this time you’d press closely that I’d feel the tenderness of your bust seeking freedom of oppression from your blouse. I recall wanting to pause that moment in my retina, just before you slid your hands and pulled me out. I remember retracting, acting like I was humming to the song, when all I did was to raise your cloth up your thighs as you gently tilted your black panty sideways. Then seconds, we became enchanted. We became one as rhythmically we danced back and forth to the feel of warm moist sounds that came from beneath. We made love to the song, which, as it jogged to a close, I let myself out into you. And I remember you holding me so tight that you could pluck my ears out, saying that you loved me. I believed you. Because at that point I loved you back.
I’d wake to find myself wrapped in your cardigan that I got for you on your 19th birthday. It was a replica of the one that mom had worn the night she gave birth to you, but you grew up not knowing who she was. She deserted you. You hated her and hated the Cardigan too. It often made you feel insecure. For the greater part of your teen you spent wondering if indeed you were worthy of being loved. It was hard letting someone into your life, and when you finally let me in, I remember promising you that I’ll always be there for the audience that you broke for. That I’d always love your music, your guitar, your vocals. That I’d always be there to chant your name all the way through. I recall your long dark hair; how messy it was. How you let it grow out in a free form to conjure into locks. How you loved museums and your phobia for height’s. How you tightly laced your eyes with your lashes when the nurse pricked your thumb. I recall being in the waiting room with you. You were shaking afraid of what the results would be. I held your hands, smiling ardently, saying that you had nothing to worry about. You sunk back into your seat and said, “Phill, this is HIV we’re talking about!” And when your results came back, you sighed in relief. I tried holding your hands, laughing at you, saying, “see, you had nothing to be afraid of.” When my time came to go in, I did. And when my results came back that was that last I ever saw of you.
Knowing that I could have given you all these events, doesn’t make my pain hurt less. I’d be cruising on, sailing in the tides thinking about what if, maybe I could’ve turned you to what I was. What if I had told you who I am, would we be the same? Maybe I’d be with you in a voyage to Rwanda; take you to the museum to witness how vile human creatures can sometimes be, and the same understand that it only needs time for deep wounds to heal. Maybe I’d take you to the lakeside, experience the breeze of the sunset and eat fish. Go to poetry events and listen to the muse of words. Just maybe. I remember in the hospital you asked me to explain why my test results came back positive. I recall giggling not knowing what to say. Trying to elude your gaze. You stood there and asked if I slept with anyone else but you. Your eyes had begun forming a protuberance full of tears ready to burst at any moment thus. You searched in my eyes with empathy and vile curiosity, but it was no surprise that I knew of my status earlier before. You were the only woman I was intimate with.
So how could it be that I had it and you didn’t. You interrogated me. Spoke with bitterness and regrets. Told me of things such as; “how could you?” “I trusted you!!!” You paused. Stared at me. Waited for me to say something.
“It’s my mom.!” I said.
“So you knew all these time and you never told me?”
“What was I to do?”
You swallowed hard. Listened to your heart. Reasoned with you mind. You saw me for what I truly was, ‘the devil behind the wheel’. I’ve been on drugs for a lifetime, I took drugs to suppress my evil friends from crossing over to you. I protected you. At least I tried to. But protecting you meant telling you. Telling you meant losing you. What was I to do when every other person I met, I often tell of my deepest secrets only to witness them walk away?
Lips trembling you blatantly said;
“You almost killed me. You put me at risk. I don’t want to see you!”
You walked out. Leaving me standing there, with the nurse feeling pity for me. I thought it was a joke that you’d cool off but you damn made sure that I never saw you.
So what kind of mystery lies in deepest secrets that often invite strangers in the same way moths are phototactic towards light, and then as soon as you unravel it, as soon as the lights goes off, they retract, saying your dark is too much to handle?? I remember a friend telling me that the only way to cure HIV is through death. I believe him now.
Somehow, I remember all these things yet I do not miss you one bit.
*****
As written by Phill Ibsen
(Master of Descriptions)
Heart_Art_Poetics Productions.
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