Monterrey.

You like that, begging, pleading, spreading me out for your display. Makes me think of Monterrey. 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, the center of my collarbone, becoming your mold and your shape. You know where to hold your right hand, on the part of the thigh, wrapping almost completely around, touching the part that sits now between your thumb and my… I’m unable to breathe. You say, “Don’t move, ma.” Grips permanently a part of my own anatomy. I feel them when you’re far, in another place.

How did you know, doing that to me? Touching so I remember forever, you, even if far away.

To never forget how tight your embrace. You whispering in redundant mantra, breath thick and stifling me, “I’ll have you in ways that makes you think of me,” and adding between each measure, “I won’t let you forget me, ma.”

And to be continued in part 2.

Excerpt from
Between Jerusalem and Mexico, a taboo love.