Day 31: denouement


Rainy Tuesday Morning

Dubai

Dear Lover,

As you sleep here, by my side, I want to tell you how beautiful you look.  The curls in your lashes reminds me of the days when I used to peer through cribs, where babies lay, ever so easeful, and yet so brittle.  I want to blow on those lashes to feed my thoughts of storms back home as coconut trees waltz to the thunder’s canine roars – some say I can be a storm in itself – I say I can only bring in the rain.  It is you who let in the storm and its antecedent always comes from the way you blink with the beat of my heart. With the way my heart drums through my breath, thanks to your sleeping form here.  Now.  Your eyes closed and those storytelling lashes escorting every word that comes out of its optical master.  I kiss your left eye instead smelling last night’s cigarette.

I put the back of my hand on your whiskered face, stunned lightly by those tiny little needles of hair, as my hand traveled to your chin, my thumb stopping a little to lounge on your cleft.  I run my other hand to your crimped hair, forming ringlets on top of your head, smiling there, knowing how you hated the way I do that when you are awake.  I drown my hand inside your hair, feeling the rancid warmth of its mane, drawing shapeless memories of rain and sunlight towards my trembling chimera.  Did I meet you in the rain?  We both like the rain.  We spoke twice with rainwater on our faces, drenched by our own laughter and perhaps by the welcome of our sordid pasts represented by our dampness and you told me, “Your hair is so long you can eat it!”  I smirked behind my wet hair that fortuitously covered my face and said, “Let’s have pizza.  I can see that you are hungry.”

“Are you?” you asked, your perfect brows meeting perfectly.

“No, you are,” I said, pulling both of us out of the rain and into the nearby chophouse.

Now I am hungry.  Hungry for your words that speak of jazz and modern-day vampires.  Why do you sleep anyhow?  Do you see so much at night that it becomes unbecoming to see the day?  I look out at your window and see the glass still dewy with the night’s rain and I remember how we made love.  Was that love?  You refused to kiss me because I smelt of fags and beer.  I kissed you anyhow. You kissed me anyhow.  You fucked me.  We had sex for a full 10 minutes and then you snored your way to kingdom come that I had to cum alone.  Tragically.  Now I am hungry.  Hungry for your voluptuous sentences that will reassure me that we are good.  That we are lovers.  That I can love you anyhow.

I move away from you, to my side of the bed and tinkered on your alarm clock looking at the time madly.   6:23 AM.  I look at you again, my eyes on your disturbingly defenseless self, snuffling lightly and my thoughts navigating to the torches of Boracay, when I was in bed with a German diver, then to the 90s when I was in bed with a faceless nobody I met somewhere in the realm of twisted anecdotes, then to Riyadh, where faceless nobodies had names and even bigger stories and then back to you, to your bed, in Dubai, where a virtual folktale is brimming.  Where our story have a spectral beginning. But how will it end?

I sit like an Indian.  I wrap myself with your nidorous sheet that still smelled so good despite its desperate need to be thrown out.  I touch your knee.  I caress it.  My eyes suddenly catches your guitar, the anthem of your days, your demigod, wishing I belong in one of those strings so I can always be available to create harmonies with you.  But I can’t.  I am here, caressing your legs under your mattress, hoping you don’t wake up at all, waiting for the star that is yet to fall on my dubious earth.  To tell me that I can stipulate my feelings for you.  To show me that I still can be both a maiden and a captain of your liquescent voyages.  What do I want to be anyhow but to be here for you.  But I can’t.  You are not here.

I am looking for my paramour dressed as a tempestuous long-haired renaissance who will sit with me at the wooded esplanade in our house up north.  I will serve us both green tea (my choice) and I would tie his hair with my scarf telling him that this weather is too hot for the both of us.  At night we will both read to each other and run to the beach when we get bored.  We will sleep in his hammock in the afternoons, sail in the middle of the ocean and swim together in the abyss.  My long-haired valentine does not smoke but he drinks the finest wines.  He tells me he hates my whining but loves my poetry as he shampoos my hair talking about his brothers far far away.  Away from our love nest.  Away from Dubai where I am right now.  Away from . . .

. . . where we are NOW.

Did you ever think of Dubai being a masculine man?  A vulture?  A scattering light of blues and purples exploding with virility and energy?  A cannibal of a man who can engulf you in the midst of your feeble dreams and wishes?  With its magnitude of hungry crackerjacks and its lack of trees, it can actually manifest in itself your worst nightmares and probably recreate your draped forebodings?  Well, you are new in Dubai, what do you know?  In your discoveries of this very agile city, here’s to remember the basic rules of metabolism:  do not eat everything that you cannot stomach, otherwise, you will end up a very stuffed man unable to walk through its narrow portal of dreams.  As a friend told me recently, “What happens in Dubai stays in Dubai.”  I really don’t know if I should agree with that.  All I know is the fact that the city is a lover full of new things and with every new thing that comes its way, it says goodbye to the old hand.  It all becomes an experiment of its own.  A work of art entirely based on manifestation and self-preservation.  In my own estimation, a love represented by the dynamics of a concrete jungle is worth its same cement-induced emphatic framework.  And what is this city but the tallest man-made building in the world surrounded by an even more cluster of its ensemble built by erected sand? What do you think, lover?

Here you sleep.  Here I look at you knowing I will let you go eventually.

Goodbye now.  I will be where I am in case you want to stand in the rain and talk again.

As I step out of your room, I will miss you.  And I will think about you always.

Jon

Advertisements

About this entry