As always, your ivory ear buds peaked out of your
dark wash jeans as I shuffled through
the semi-conscious morning commuters.
That familiar quiescent attitude and waft of fresh laundry surrounded me.
The down of my silver jacket brushed up against your
olivaster sweater as I sat down next to you, noticing
your chestnut eyes float over to me.
The satin voice of
a familiar serenade temporarily
paused on your iPod.
My thoughts stuttered behind my lips
as I caught you glancing at me—that crooked smile and
charcoal hair of yours added a boyish charm to you.
The little schoolgirl in me couldn't help but giggle
as you shook your head like a reluctant toddler, determined
not to speak a word of English today—just like every other day.
You won't believe me, but your Spanish accent is adorable.
Yes, adorable...
And don't think I'm trying to make you any less manly.
Your use of smiles as adjectives and verb tenses was better
than having an immaculate conversation.
A sleepy silence washed over the two of us
as the train conductor carted us off to our destinations.
But I noticed something I suppose I had overlooked for
about a year now.
Clearly etched in ink,
on the tender part of your left hand
was an “R.I.”
Delicate fingertips traced its
contours.
Like a child's scrawled handwriting,
the imperfection of the capital letters
weaved themselves into the patchwork of a complex memory.
I suppose the question was written on my lips,
seeing as you told me it hurt quite a bit when you had it done.
A stupid idea, you explained.
I could never sit through one.
A train-car confession; I'm squeamish.
A shrug, a sigh, a smirk.
Oh, there was so much blood,
just gushing...Everywhere! You know how it is.
And the needles were like serrated knives,
piercing your skin over and over again,
you teased.
And then it happened.
I squeezed your hand,
shushing you anxiously
as the mental images of such a horror story
began to form.
You didn't let go.
On the contrary.
Your devilish grin widened
as you held my hand and
wrapped your arm around me.
Quédate conmigo.
“I don't need convincing.”
I was only waiting for this moment to arise.
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