distance (part fourteen)

The shadows under my eyes were puffy again for a couple of days.
I watched you dance,
You embraced me twice--

      I remember those hugs, man.
      I remember the day that we didn't communicate that much
      ended in a table pushed away,
      a chair almost thrown,
      and an anger you tried so hard to stifle.
      I remember you coming out the doors after he declared it over,
      and I ended up in a powerful arm lock against you,
      as you assured me that you would never, ever, ever hurt me in real life.
      I'd only known you for months, danced with you maybe twice, and I was
      assured.
      Nobody'd ever assured me that exact promise before.

You are so strong. When I first knew you, you reminded me of me before college. Maybe that's why I wasn't completely repugnant to the knowledge of your faith.
About a month before I left, or maybe a few months before, I heard you swear in casual conversation, and I saw myself losing my faith all over again. As much as the institution disgusts me, it made me sad.
Your faith isn't something that completely defines you. You define you. Your faith is just a component.
Maybe that's what I like about you.

I keep referring to you as my "bro" when I talk about you to people you don't know. (I refer to a few other of my close male friends as brothers, but for some reason...) It doesn't happen that often, don't worry.

I was so jealous watching you do the scene to Madame Butterfly. I kept imagining me in her place. That was in the worst throes of my unrequitedness towards you.

I want to go on an easy-ish hike with you.
Just to be able to talk to you.
Keep company with you.
Learn what else drives you, besides the Good Lord.

I want to teach you to blues dance. And then, I want you to be slightly better than me, enough to lead me well.
(And didn't I say before, that I didn't need another dancer?)
I want touching foreheads with you, and I want you to only be able to lead me with my body pressed against yours like the Rapture is tonight, and I want you to know what all that may mean for later.

I almost want to twist you, corrupt whatever hasn't been corrupted in you.
Reach through that sun-kissed skin, throuogh those washboard abs, and reach for your hara.
What is in you? What is at your center? Is it really Jesus? Or is it just love?
      (And don't tell me that they're the same, boy--Jesus is one, maybe three, things,
      But love is in every living, flesh-and-tangible thing.
      And believe me, Jesus hasn't seen a move like this before.)
What is your core? A radiant ball of light? A glowing ball of fire-like energy that burns my hand the longer I hold it? Something else, twisting frantically because oh my gosh, another one's getting under my skin and through to me, Lord, stop it this time, please?!
Tell me, what is your hara made of, boy‽‽
Because I honestly cannot tell,
But whatever it is, it's magnetic,
And it's drawing me to you
Once again.

I want those arms to keep company around me.
I want my hands in your hair. God, that hair.
God, those eyes. Another set of blues.
My blue-eyed, unrelated brother. The older brother I never had, the one that verbally vowed to never purposefully hurt me. (Oh.)

Gimme those arms.
You can go back to your God in the morning. Although, I'm not even asking you to worship me.
Just be.
For now,
Sink a thousand sighing, unsaid whispers into the soft place just above where my neck meets my shoulders.
Give unto me, you, if only just once.

-Dana Winter