Just a Pain Reliever (Pinili Series #1)

Chapter 32

Of All Things  

Insanity. 

To see him is to touch him. To feel him is to hear his voice. And of all the things I desired, he was, and will always be, the one who resides deeply in my heart. I swear, by Cupid's best arrow with its golden head, I will devote my eyes to him until the infinite universe conspires.

I never understood desire until our skin scorched each other, until our gazes were glazed.

"Spare me." 

Such a blossoming declaration of passion cannot be spoken by an unrehearsed actor, whose fears are buried behind deadpan eyes, or by a wild animal, brimming with rage. Standing still, frozen and overwhelmed by my beloved's dominating gaze, I spoke in the silence of my scream. His voice, beyond the hymn of the earth's soul, pulled me by such a gentle force. And he was like the northern lights, the footsteps on silver sand, the echo within a forest. He was everything that resembled a mystical beauty. It was as if the slight parting of his lips, as his visions were captivated by mine, were somewhat like the waves breaking into one's pinkish feet, white foamy bubbles caressing the ankles, with salty kisses underneath the gaze of the sun. He was somehow bright and dazzling, somewhat seductive and alluring. And as he looked down softly, the wooden strands of his hair curved like a comma onto his golden cheekbones.

Of all the things I have seen, this was the most exquisite scenery. And of all the eyes I have looked into, his were beyond the languid, thirsty summer day. Asleep or awake, I desire him. Daydreams and thoughts, I desire him.

The moment the trees sang, when the wind whistled, and the birds giggled, my heart leaped like a cheetah's Godspeed feet. Magnificently lost, wonderfully drunk by desires, and hopelessly devoted to each other's stolen gazes. We were like children hiding behind an oak tree, stealing glances and counting the clap of the clock before releasing the bullets of our devotion. We kept caressing each other's souls with our silent eyes. It was as if there was a siren of flaming arrows in our irises. He stole the words I was meaning to say. Spare me. Spare me. I beg of you, spare me.

Have I fallen deeply into the sea of the unknown?

Hush. 

"Huh?" I have nothing to say. My voice was held by my mere courageousness.

Quickly, he lifted his head, with a gentle smile pressing on his lips. His face was flushed with the fire's rumble. I could feel the stillness of my feet above the ground. My heart played along with the fire, like a summer storm, like a tornado's laugh. Slowly, like an afterglow, his fingertips molded my face. And thus, my skin grew warm. Upon my blanket's nudity, behind the piercing skin of my moon's cry, underneath the windows of my passion, I stood still as his caress was mine to own. The silence of my sacred poems was read aloud by my eyes as I spent the rest of my time staring into the deepest reaches of his visions.

People say that when a person falls deeply, he or she has become a fool. Perhaps, I'd rather be a fool than let my heart slip away from his.

And I knew he was a labyrinth with no escape. And I knew I was willing to be a prisoner. All the same, bone and skin, eyes against eyes, I am his to tame.

"I'd rather not spare you." My lips grinned. 

"The doorway of my passion cannot be brushed against yours," he replied. I giggled. 

I gazed at him. "Cannot. For now." 

And then I looked at him again. His face was redder than that of an apple. From the simple gazes and traces of our silence, it felt as though he was closer than yesterday, warmer than before. As his eyes lingered on me, it felt like his scent crawled onto me, and thus, I have only been longing for his warmth alone. There was silence and then I heard the words in his eyes. They are the color of tawny whiskey, something like a cinnamon hue, like the earth's soil. And when the sun struck his visons, I saw sienna and umber within those, speckled with gold, earthly tones and a fiery copper's kiss. It was more than just a chocolate's skin, it was more than the golden hour at noon, it was something like immortalized oak, chiseled to its finest.