The last time I heard from Gemima, she told me I was fiercely rebellious and we were polar opposites. Alas after several monsoons, here she is serenading me the same tune. She says she’s evolved, that she never gave up. She’s telling me she failed me when she seized believing in us. Gemima tells me that each night she spent away from me made her bones frail.
With all her vibrant hues, Gemima says the valley spoke to her, the only language she could understand. Her glassy eyes wander far into the distance, to shadows of climaxing eagles.
She says I was her hero, a sight for sore eyes
I quiver from her lingering gaze, her trembling hands found mine. Her grip reminds me of everything I let go. My cheeks fluster and I wonder if she still cares for me. Her ebony skin glistens below the vantage sun, revealing new tribal inks.
I imagine her to be my Tutu, only more regnal. Perhaps Beethoven reveled on her physique when he composed that daringly magnificent medley.
I know her inside-out, and she could discern every needling thought of my densely silent mind. She could never meet my gaze, her guilt wouldn’t allow. Even as my breasts rested on her supple thighs, eons of heartache resonate in her. This time around, I hope I make her speechless too.
18 years have passed, yet she’s found her way back to me as though our blood echoes insouciantly to each other, begging to be sealed in writing. And we love to revel in despair, like the snake and the mongoose.
Retrospectively, I realize that the bare thread lingering between us is strained beyond repair yet even if the sun drowns in a cloudburst, Gemima creates the tenebrous riptide in my nirvana I can’t help but covet. The scars she left won’t heal for another eighteen years.