Our talk, part 1.

My ear pressed to the phone, I can hear you breathe before you speak. Trouble and peace in an accent from the middle of two oceans between west and east. Your existence consumes me even though an earth keeps us so far away, our love separated physically most days, but tied infinitely by the heart. I always try to hold onto the memory of your face, you towering over me, your chest to grab. I think about that a lot. I don’t ever want to forget and sometimes I’m afraid I might. And the most remarkable part of you, inside of me, trying to do things I’ve never done, in a rhythm similar to Hayati when Souad Massi performs. When you last spoke, and you sing the last line, “No one knows of me but God.” My hands start gliding up my silhouetted sides, my undone. I’m in turmoil when I don’t see you in front of me, and when you go far. Sometimes when you leave, I don’t know if that’s the last time I will have you in my arms. You say you’ll steal me away to Haifa, to have me whenever your moments allow.

You’re too far, my Prince.

“Ma…” He exhales through static, breaking through complicated emotions and words.

Truth - I don’t want you to feel lonely, sad, a place I have seen you in before.

“My love, tell me,” I reply.

“She is not you,” sweetly, deeply he says. And, “I’m so alone without you.”

She doesn’t moan out loud for you. She does not beg the way you need. Or, allow you the sprawl of your fingers, choking her life force away.

“I fucked her so hard as if I could will you beneath me. Why won’t you be with me?” He breathes through his teeth.

I am always with you, Prince.

You love women, their architecture, design. You’ve loved them since the first moment you masturbated to thoughts of one, trying to recall every part of one. Your favorite, the mature kind. I remember you told me about the wife across the road, down the way, before you went off to war too soon. She’d let you watch her through a glass pane window, so you could learn where to touch, and then maybe practice some more later on.

You developed too quickly into loving women in the most perverse, most beautiful ways, most intimate and dark ways. You don’t just notice the curves, you notice the line dividing the line that intersects and shapes the curve. Fantasizing yourself in between each curve, you allowing the lines and divide to pull you in. You enjoy teaching yourself exactly where each line leads next, so you know where to go next, all while those lines intersect, holding you in.

“Tell me.” I insist.

You groan low and slow in a monotone version of out loud with an accent on each note, “Why won’t you be with me?” He insists more.

You always insist more. I imagine she did not know that about you. You and your ways, Prince.

Truth - I feel nothing other than you are home, I’m wife, ma and mami, I’m yours. I’ll take care of you, allowing your marks and more.

I can hear you grab yourself, making my heart race. You, over there sulking, picturing me biting my lower lip. I’m clenched, my inner thighs massaging only air, wishing for you to… To be under you. To serve you with any tension you’d care to apply. To taste your licorice vine, as you insist I do all the time. And the meaning of tenderness when you are holding me down.

“We can’t always be, my love. I can’t always, you can’t always…” My reason interrupted.

“Fuck him,” he inserts his voice.

You don’t mean that… You love him, too.

More truth - You catch my attention when you yell in a calm, seductive Cheshire grin.

I distract, “I will come to you. Where are you right now?”

“You know where I am,” he unable to sound more sad.

“Tell me about her. Describe her.” I encourage more, I imagine you.

Did you make her beg?

You like that, begging, pleading, spreading out for your display. Makes me think of Monterrey. Me pressed against a cold glass pane, asking over and over and over for you to finish with me. My thighs propped up and tired while you clench fully my throat from each side, me becoming your mold and shape, you knowing where to hold in order for me to still breathe. You command, “Don’t move, ma.” Those gripping hands now permanently a part of my own anatomy, I even feel them when you are in another place, taking over me from far away.

How did you know to do that to me? To touch me so I would remember you forever, to never forget you and that tight, hostage-like embrace. You whispering in a redundant mantra, “Fuck, ma…” And adding in between each measure, “Do you know how much I love you.”

And to be continued in part 2.

Between Jerusalem and Mexico, a taboo love.
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