44- Sometimes I get tired and crazy about loving her

44- Sometimes I get tired and crazy about loving her
Sometimes I get tired and desperate. And that precious patience, which characterizes me so much, hides away. But I waited for it, I waited for it, like someone longing for summer in the middle of February, surviving in that white and empty scene. I project it like organizing a one-way trip, with a map full of crosses on all the streets I would have walked with her in dreams, even though we never left the bed. Unconsciously, we would have passed through my throat knot, my stomach's emptiness, my fierce green butterflies, the ones that only my romantic lyricism can see because she created them.
A long time later, when Ro left my life, one day someone asked me why we had broken up, and I could only say, "because I didn’t know how to make her happy." Then they said, "How could you not know how to make her happy if you love her with such passion that it doesn’t fit in your chest?" That was the problem, that I loved her too much and couldn't claim her as my own, that art is of itself and confining her soul in a poem or a painting was impossible for me. It was the biggest denial I had in life, the denial of losing her; after that, I learned to live. Many say that after your second life is when you learn to know yourself and to make life something important because you have already felt death, but I only know that life never had more importance than when she smiled at me and told me some funny story. The dreams had their reason for being, and the Christmas trees were full of gifts, all for her. Then I thought I would give anything to hear her tell me ten thousand more stories if she was the protagonist and smiled at me as if she was only waiting to get home to tell me. At night, I still conceive her as that writer of my bedside book, the one who made magic describing a war of socks that never happened. I don’t remember which drawer she kept the socks in, nor if she still kept my letters or that old giraffe that I would see her make love with another woman as if none of my freckles had ever passed through her life.
Sometimes I wondered if I was born to be abandoned. Abandoned and replaced. If Rocío was the owner of my entire being, she wouldn’t abandon me. And what about me? Would I be condemned to lose her and remember her with the dust on the yellow pages of a book? I still felt like a little girl about to be abandoned.
I loved Rocío every day; I remembered how beautiful she looked when she painted her cheeks with blush. She looked like one of those little dolls you dress in the middle of autumn with a new dress, dusting them off next to the old books. I loved it when she laughed like a little girl after taking a delightful bubble bath, that’s how she smiled, and it even made me want to have a baby together just so that during bath time, both would fill my hair with foam amidst laughter. Every time I thought about sex or some spicy event, she would tense her lips, making them appear pinker than usual. I loved the way she challenged the sun with her gaze, always looking at the horizon. Her eyes stole the brightness from the entire day when those fleeting and mischievous thoughts passed through her.
"Why are you so beautiful? You are like a poem. Untouchable and unpronounceable, but you exist, and the magic of the world hides in you." – I murmured, sliding my index finger over the mole on her left shoulder.
"I like it when you say those things to me; you make my heart race."
"What I feel for you, I have never felt for anyone else. Ro," Mía announced as if she had just freed herself from a huge truth.
"And I have never loved anyone with such strength; I love you more than I love myself, skinny. I like this we have, this way of being united; it's something that goes beyond anything, do I explain myself?" – Rocío looked at Charlie, who was purring on her head, hidden among the pillows. – "I love making love to you; you have a very beautiful body. I don’t want to lose you, Mía."
"You know? I wanted to tell you that I loved you, but I thought, 'ummm if she doesn’t say it to me, I'm not going to say it to her.'" – We both laughed.
"I love you." – She kissed my chin. She nibbled my chin with small kisses, and I opened my mouth, barely able to breathe in short gasps, calming my excitement tenderly at the exact moment before making love to me again.
She looked at me and waited for my senses to focus again on her. She waited until my mind stopped levitating above my body and I could feel her hands to lose myself with her again. She waited for me with a heartwarming patience, even to travel to other planets. She loved me, and I felt loved, perfect in her arms. I was the most beautiful woman in the world because one feels that way when one is beautiful to the person they love. The fire emanating from her eyes caused me such turmoil that I lost hope of ever reaching the peak; we would burn making love in that very moment, turning to ashes after a quickie. I freed her from all the earthquakes she carried inside when I had her trembling naked in my mouth; I licked her all over, sailing through her breasts, and her moans sounded in the wind like a delicate whistle. The sleeping cat on the bed was the only witness while Rocío promised to love me forever between kisses and caresses.
I idealize her like a dead genius when I make love to her, even though she was more alive than I had been in weeks without seeing her. I do it like anyone who falls in love with a character, completely forgetting the actress behind it.
"I felt a current loaded with those little spasms in my body," said Rocío, lighting a cigarette. "When I told you to stop, I really couldn’t take it anymore; I was going to scream very loudly," she confessed, letting out a stream of smoke. "How do you do it? I have never felt that with any other woman."
"I just enjoy giving you so much pleasure; I enjoy it so much that that happens." – I admitted, blushing.
"And that's what drives me crazy; I have never felt anything like this, for God's sake, Mía, you are amazing in bed." – I smiled, pleased, and kissed her.
"Um, you’re laughing," she smiled. "Kiss me, kiss me."
I believed in her like the miserable believe in revolutions, believing her to be the political miracle that would change everything, like religious fanatics to their clay and gold gods. I liked it when she confronted me and challenged me, when she got jealous, and made me feel more hers than ever, claiming any nonsense that could be justified with a kiss. When I was by her side, I hyperbolized her like eternal love; my hands wrinkled inside hers, caressing her skin, memorizing my lifeline, which ended right where hers began. It was magic, and it is the most precious concept of magic that the Royal Spanish Academy never told us about.