Untitled
03-18-2011, 07:08 AM
[SIZE="1"]I pressed my lips against your skin as I closed my eyes, my fingers softly navigating the curves of your body, the long healed wounds and the hardened calluses that mark you, the soft, supple skin that’s untouched by all the violence. Like a guide along the stars, I’ve memorized you. I don’t need a light to find the bullet wound on your right bicep, or a map to follow the scars on your being for I’ve seen them when they were still wounds that threatened to take you from this world to the next. I touch them now, my fingers trembling, as reminders of the fragility of life.
And your strength of will to live.
Everyday you’re out there, fighting this war. And every day I’m left here, praying for your return. You’re a soldier – a sniper. Though you don’t fight on the front lines, your scars are proof that war spares no one. Yet, somehow, you’ve continued on despite the horrors you’ve seen, felt, inflicted. You tell me of your skirmishes, your battles. You tell me of your victories. You tell me of your rescues. But you never tell me of the defeats. Of those you’ve killed. Of those who were lost.
I don’t need to here it.
I am a medic. Though I’m not out there with you, I am not blind. I see it. I see it all. They bring me the results of those lost battles on stretchers or gurneys – soldiers who are broken and torn, soldiers who need our abilities to bring them back from the brink of death. They cry out in their sleep of ghastly images; of bullets going through flesh, of deafening explosions, of mangled bodies strewn across the ground of the battlefield that they miraculously managed to leave with their lives. They are broken not only body, but in mind and spirit, and I, even with my capabilities, can’t hope to fix them. Every day I pray that you will not be one of them, not another casualty in this campaign for supremacy. Not another faceless soldier lost.
Not again.
I wrap my arms around your chest, pressing myself against your back. Your body is warm, your skin is moist. Your hair is wet against my cheek, the beads of water from your shower glistening in the little light of my bedroom. The sheets are damp and tangled beneath us. I embrace you tightly as I burry myself into the crook of your neck, the water dripping from your hair slipping between the non-existent space between us. You already know what’s on my mind.
You turn, and my grasp on you breaks for a painful moment. Only for just a moment. Your hardened hands are rough against my waist, and soon the space between us is closed again. Your hands slide along my sides to my back, and you trace your fingertips along my spine. Water drips down my nakedness, and you catch them as they fall, drawing wings of water behind my shoulders with your fingers. A soft moan escapes my lips, and it is lost in the darkness.
Just as I have memorized you, you have memorized me.
You hold me tenderly. Your heartbeat is steady against my breast. You’re alive. I can feel it. But I can also feel the trenches on your skin against my chest, malice engraved into you by your enemies. They say that the deeper sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. No. They pain me. They are reminders of the suffering you have endured, of the horror of war you have seen and survived, yet you carry them not with pride, but with silent dignity.
You told me they were your reasons for living.
Your beliefs, your ideals, your dreams, your reasons for leaving. Each were represented by the marks of those who wished to deny you these. Those who wished to take you away from me. I begin to cry silently, and instantly you know that the newly fallen drops on your skin are not water, but are salty tears.. I cling to you, frantic. Your reasons for living… will you die for them? I don’t want to lose you.
You are gentle with my selfishness, and you whisper into my ear sweet solace.
Your words trail off as you wipe the streaks on my cheeks with your lips until they brush against mine. We kiss, and I am reassured by your breath, your heat, your wetness that we are here. The passion we share convinces me; we are alive, we are alive.
I rise to my knees, my body still pressed tightly against yours. You look straight up at me, quite, your windows to the soul hiding so many things, protecting me from the nightmares I already have. I wonder if you can see right through me, through my insecurities, my selfishness. I wonder if you can see everything in this darkness, my reason for living.
You.
Why else would I stay on this wretched country? I want to protect you. I want to save you from these scars that you hold on to, from the tears you cry to yourself when you think I am asleep. I want to heal you, heal you of all the hurt you’ve endured, of the wounds on your spirit and soul. But, in the end, you are the one who stands strong for the both of us.
I hold your face in my hands and smile, bittersweet.
In the end, all I can do is love you.
Despite all the pain, all the loss, all the tragedies that haunt us – somehow, we live. Somehow, we love.
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And your strength of will to live.
Everyday you’re out there, fighting this war. And every day I’m left here, praying for your return. You’re a soldier – a sniper. Though you don’t fight on the front lines, your scars are proof that war spares no one. Yet, somehow, you’ve continued on despite the horrors you’ve seen, felt, inflicted. You tell me of your skirmishes, your battles. You tell me of your victories. You tell me of your rescues. But you never tell me of the defeats. Of those you’ve killed. Of those who were lost.
I don’t need to here it.
I am a medic. Though I’m not out there with you, I am not blind. I see it. I see it all. They bring me the results of those lost battles on stretchers or gurneys – soldiers who are broken and torn, soldiers who need our abilities to bring them back from the brink of death. They cry out in their sleep of ghastly images; of bullets going through flesh, of deafening explosions, of mangled bodies strewn across the ground of the battlefield that they miraculously managed to leave with their lives. They are broken not only body, but in mind and spirit, and I, even with my capabilities, can’t hope to fix them. Every day I pray that you will not be one of them, not another casualty in this campaign for supremacy. Not another faceless soldier lost.
Not again.
I wrap my arms around your chest, pressing myself against your back. Your body is warm, your skin is moist. Your hair is wet against my cheek, the beads of water from your shower glistening in the little light of my bedroom. The sheets are damp and tangled beneath us. I embrace you tightly as I burry myself into the crook of your neck, the water dripping from your hair slipping between the non-existent space between us. You already know what’s on my mind.
You turn, and my grasp on you breaks for a painful moment. Only for just a moment. Your hardened hands are rough against my waist, and soon the space between us is closed again. Your hands slide along my sides to my back, and you trace your fingertips along my spine. Water drips down my nakedness, and you catch them as they fall, drawing wings of water behind my shoulders with your fingers. A soft moan escapes my lips, and it is lost in the darkness.
Just as I have memorized you, you have memorized me.
You hold me tenderly. Your heartbeat is steady against my breast. You’re alive. I can feel it. But I can also feel the trenches on your skin against my chest, malice engraved into you by your enemies. They say that the deeper sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. No. They pain me. They are reminders of the suffering you have endured, of the horror of war you have seen and survived, yet you carry them not with pride, but with silent dignity.
You told me they were your reasons for living.
Your beliefs, your ideals, your dreams, your reasons for leaving. Each were represented by the marks of those who wished to deny you these. Those who wished to take you away from me. I begin to cry silently, and instantly you know that the newly fallen drops on your skin are not water, but are salty tears.. I cling to you, frantic. Your reasons for living… will you die for them? I don’t want to lose you.
You are gentle with my selfishness, and you whisper into my ear sweet solace.
Your words trail off as you wipe the streaks on my cheeks with your lips until they brush against mine. We kiss, and I am reassured by your breath, your heat, your wetness that we are here. The passion we share convinces me; we are alive, we are alive.
I rise to my knees, my body still pressed tightly against yours. You look straight up at me, quite, your windows to the soul hiding so many things, protecting me from the nightmares I already have. I wonder if you can see right through me, through my insecurities, my selfishness. I wonder if you can see everything in this darkness, my reason for living.
You.
Why else would I stay on this wretched country? I want to protect you. I want to save you from these scars that you hold on to, from the tears you cry to yourself when you think I am asleep. I want to heal you, heal you of all the hurt you’ve endured, of the wounds on your spirit and soul. But, in the end, you are the one who stands strong for the both of us.
I hold your face in my hands and smile, bittersweet.
In the end, all I can do is love you.
Despite all the pain, all the loss, all the tragedies that haunt us – somehow, we live. Somehow, we love.
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![[-]](https://gayspeak.com/images/duende_v3_local/collapse.png)
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