I see you when I close my eyes. I see you when I close my eyes, Santana, and I didn’t say anything about love, but when you’re humming against my lips I don’t know what else to think. I don’t know what to think, but you’re here, and humming against my mouth. Brushing your lips like wings on my neck, a hummingbird, all feather and shimmer and gloss. You skim, you dart, you hover. Your eyes hold me close to you for a moment that seems to take forever and leaves me hardly breathing, then you’re gone—gone to bury yourself in my neck again, gone with words that don’t feel like you mean them.
I learned long ago not to listen to your words—or at least not so much as to your eyes, your voice, your body—your words that cut—your eyes that hold, voice that warms me, skin that soothes. You tell me none of it means anything, then your hair falls like a curtain against my cheek. You tell me you’re here for an hour, and then it’s midnight and I feel you digging your chin deeper into my shoulder. You say something else I barely hear, then the sun is melting into the bed and I feel your arm pinned under my belly and it’s been asleep for hours, it has to have been.
No one is like you. Every mouth that I’ve kissed was searching for something: searching for heat, or that taste you can share, animal to animal, or for something that’s lost, or for something I’m helpless to give. I can always feel that looking, a kind of feeling that beats like wind against my skin. I don’t know who they think I am, when they kiss me. I felt it from them; you were searching for me. I always feel you searching for me.