I hate memories. They are like little ticket stubs sitting in a corner of your wallet, fading slowly. At first they are bright and black, the dark ink gleaming against the stark whiteness of the fragile ricepaper. Soon they begin to turn grey as they dig their way deeper and deeper, covered by receipts and bills and passport photographs and one day you’re absently looking for something else and stumble upon them and you can barely make out the title of the movie you saw, etched in a watery sans serif script.
It’s been almost a month since we laid side by side, gazing into each other’s eyes and closing them briefly as our lips met. You tasted of anticipation and trepidation and the tang of residual floss. I couldn’t get enough of your quirky honesty and your melange of emotions. I peeked a couple of times cos I hated rules and stared at your lashes, black and thick, like the synthetic bristles on a hairbrush. I noticed as your eyelids fluttered and stopped half way between opening as you fought your own urges to peek and I laughed. I laughed a lot then, partly because I was happy and my happiness bubbles into expression and partly because I kept remembering how awkward we were barely ten minutes ago, sitting opposite each other trying not to seem desperate to each other. Even how I came to you was funny, we were still so polite, asking if I could touch you and closing my eyes the first time because it was expected during a first kiss.
We talked a lot, in little throaty whispers like we were amateur actors auditioning for a silent film and we still had to make the mouth movements but somehow ensure that sounds didnt come out. Words flowed before a kiss, you starting sentences and feeding the ends into my mouth. We talked after a kiss, coating your palate with words and letting the residue escape my moist tongue. And we talked during kisses, murmuring unintelligble drivel from the sides of our mouths as our tongues danced a languid tango. All the casual conversations we’d suppressed, too tense to explore because of the friction that grown between us flowed freely and we giggled between my teeth grazing the soft skin of your neck as we bantered about my little goth perversions and how you could never get your internet to work inspite of how many times you’d called the snotty guy on the customer care line. It was so effortless, part of me wanted to just capture the moment, seal it in amber, never let it go.
I let you put your hands over my eyes and I remember you pressing down a little too hard and disorienting me slightly, my glasses on the table beside me, within reach if I needed them. I panicked a little, years of shortsightedness and the claustrophobia it fosters rose to the surface. You didnt seem to notice my discomfort, you’d gotten into the role and it was liberating you from your docile self so I indulged the voices in my head, feeding the terror into the pyres of passion. A red scarf to cover my eyes, hands tied away so I could only smell the pheromones and follow the rustle of your shirt against your skin. And your lips tasted richer, cos I couldn’t see them. Each touch was a surprise cos I couldn’t anticipate them. Freed of the burden of having to lead you, I enjoyed you.
I am already forgetting the texture of your virgin hair as I ran my fingers through them, what songs were playing in the background, how your fingers felt as you caressed my stubble. I am forgetting how the world seemed so far away in that moment and how three hours seemed to compress into fifteen minutes. I am forgetting how your tongue felt, melting against mine like a chocolate sponge cake and snaking forward and darting away like curious fingerlings in an aquarium. I’m forgetting your moans, high and nasally, mocking the journey they made from deep within your diaphragm as it heaved in response to me. Like that ticket, the sharpness of each individual act of intimacy is blurring into the bland routine of the day it happened, losing starkness till I have to squint to remember each single detail. This is why I long for you, to have you here beside me, on this couch, so I can recreate the memories as they age, repeating each tilt of the head, each intertwining of our fingers till, they are pressed into my psyche like a still photograph, forever perfect, made only better by age. Just so you know, next time, we’re making a video.