53. Obsesión

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~Madisen~


Solo una palabra

Pelo de oro

Es mi tesoro


Boca de rosas

Sentí mariposas



Ojos de miel

Toqué su piel



Respiré en sus brazos

Corazón en pedazos



Por esconder la verdad

Cambié la realidad



Por falta de una palabra

My heart is thumping with the pulse of the Earth when I finish reading the poem Noah wrote about me. It's dated about three weeks after our kiss at the Casino Club.

Entitled "Just One Word," it reminds me of a lyric from the Oreja de Van Gogh song, "El vestido azul," which I remember singing along to often during that time period. I wonder if that's what inspired Noah's title or if it's merely coincidence.

The poem is simple yet beautiful--a single coral rose on a bush in a secret garden.

When he begins pounding on my door, the first thing I can think of is that I hope nothing's actually wrong, because I really want to hug him right now. I want to kiss him a little bit too, but I know I can't do that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"¿Qué pasó?" I question, half-alarmed, before I slip back into the mischievous mood that has strangely overtaken me tonight. "¿Necesitas más azufre?"

Noah sniffs a partly amused but mostly riled up puff of air through his nose when I tease if he has returned for another round of healing with the stick of sulfur. He's gripping my Aventuras Chile notebook.

"¿Tienes mi agenda? I think they got mixed up the other day."

Noah appears completely freaked out by the potential breach of his privacy, so I hold my tongue to preserve his dignity. I shuffle through the stack of books where I've tucked the agenda, pretending as though I have no idea where it is and no knowledge of the way he's spilled his heart onto the pages with elegant rhymes etched in blue ink.

"¿Este es tuyo?" Hopefully my tone conveys nonchalance as I inquire if this one is his.

"Sipo."

We exchange books, fingers tapping together in the process. The single moment of his flesh against mine further bolsters the unwarranted confidence that has swept over me tonight. Without stepping away, I ask if his shoulder feels better.

"¿Cómo está tu hombro?" 

"Yeah, está mucho mejor," he assures me, nodding. I watch the glint materialize in his emerald irises, my mischievous spirit seemingly contagious. "I mean, at least I have mobility now. But it's still pretty sore."

His eyes flicker with coy hesitation around my face as he circles his shoulder, wincing. I take what I'm hoping was bait.

"I'm pretty good at massages."

"Yeah?"

It's different this time around, because there's no doubt about how we feel for one another. I all but declared my love for him in that letter, and it wasn't long ago on the beach that he admitted, whispering into my ear, that he's still in love as well.

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