A letter to Romeo

To the man who whispered his name on my skin,

I want you to know my arms have felt like wildfire since your lips ignited my veins. You have reminded my blood to flow with each caress, and my pulse to dance to the tempo of your searching fingers. You have left roads and avenues on my skin leading to God knows where.

But my body is not a map that will lead you where you should be, nor a book you flip through for answers. Still your hands searched under my clothes, lips followed paths on my neck, fingers dug for something beyond my bones, eyes climbed each terrain of my joints.

What are you looking for? You won’t discover anything on this new canvas painted with your old art. A canvas you touched with same old strokes, where your breath trailed an old shade of grey. The same shade of smoke from cigarettes you kissed. The color of the same sky that hovered above while you sip black coffee and write sad poetry.

 Stop searching for answers you don’t have questions for, because you’ll only lose yourself along the way.

When you whispered your name, it wasn’t for my ears. The sound of your voice told me I shouldn’t listen while you convince yourself of your being. You whispered a song struggling to be sung. You sounded a search call for lost parts of yourself. While I lay there, wondering how a lost boy escaped from Neverland. I want you to know it already sounded like an answer to the question you never asked yourself. The one you hid in different bodies you’ve touched, so you don’t have to keep in your soul.

Yes darling, you are here between flesh and bone, blood and pulse, fire and adventure, doing and dying, living and being. You are, in the simplest and most complex word, existing.