Senses of Love
I saw him for the first time after the football game the other day. Adrenaline-pumped voices boomed in the showers, but they melted into the billowing steam the moment my eyes rested on his face.
A calm overcame me, a serenity that kneeling before God in a little temple on the hills brings. His eyes were pools of cool water to a thirsty traveler walking through the desert. His sweaty, tanned skin probably tasted like sea-salt chocolate truffles. On cold Netflix-and-chill nights, his muscular, hairy arms must feel like a blanket of warm angora.
Every pore of my body wanted to be close to him.
A scrunched towel hit my head from the back, snapping me out of my reverie. “What’s the matter, Danny boy? You gay for the new guy?” The pack of cackling hyenas walked away.
I wish they had waited for my answer. Love looks angelic, smells and tastes like grandma’s baking, sounds like violins and fireworks and always feels like coming home!
Why then, is mine any different from theirs?
