There’s something strange about you—the way you find yourself at my house some nights; the way we dance around our desire wordlessly before my fingers find their way up your shirt; the way I hook up to the Bluetooth speakers and play something to drown out your shallow sighs as I kiss you down the length of your torso.
I put on FKA twigs that night. A trained dancer, her words carry this thrumming, aggressive want—not just to partake of someone, but to become an object of another’s desire. That shot of pure electricity up your spine when someone thinks of you as a thing of wonder.
As “Two Weeks” played—a four-minute come-hither, a paean to sinking into pitch-black oceans of desire—you held me so close, I felt my skin melting into yours. And you whispered in my ear that this was good, that in all these years, no one had ever held you like this. And for all the ways the world makes me feel powerless, I had the power to do this, now.
With you later asleep in my arms, I thought about us, and whether it would ever be anything more than this—this skin on glowing skin in the dark, this mutual wonder, this love-like thing hiding under blankets and in between sound waves.
But in the silence afterwards, it was plain to see that this was all there was—the awkward comforts of your company, these hushed exchanges and their serpentine soundtrack. Still, to you, I am worthy of awe. Some nights, that’s all I need.
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Apa Agbayani is a 25-year-old writer and filmmaker. He tries to work on short films and music videos in between shooting commercials and writing for CNN Philippines Life. As you’re reading this, he’s probably looking for something to eat, fighting strangers on the Internet, or playing with his dog Sherlock.