I miss…

He wrote. He’s doing fine. He thinks of me a lot, he says.

Damn it! For some strange reason I contain myself from telling him that there hasn’t passed a single day without me thinking of him either sadly, romantically, sexually or hatefully. He’s always here, even in my good and bad dreams.

The top things I miss about him, in growing order of intensity:

1. His voice –a little out of tune, but versatile enough to emulate the singing style of my teenage years idols. I also miss the vein in his neck that swelled as he held the effort.
2. His smell –I occasionally buy the cigarettes brand he used to smoke, and enjoy smelling like he did,  entering his atmosphere, though this awkward practice sometimes makes me want to cry (perhaps because I miss him, or perhaps because I feel pathetic)
3. His smile –Framed by his slim lips, it was enough for making my day. So sincere, and true, and childlike. It was capable of actioning the “I would do anything for making you smile” drive in me. If it occurred that I had gotten a smile out of him, I felt complete and fulfilled. My mission on Earth had been achieved: even for a moment, I had made him happy.
4. His way of presenting his own achievements –he  didn’t like to talk about them at all, but when he had to, he could be read as modest but I’d go for qualifying him as measured. He felt proud and vulnerable at the same time. I remember when he first showed me his room and started to show me his basketball players cards collection, and his impeccable elementary school marks and acknowledgements. It was like entering the room of a kid and witnessing a parade of toys and action figures, and his own joy. It was priceless.
5. His hands –they were manly, gigantic and tough. I really felt protected when he hugged me, and holding hands with him (while we walked or as he managed to drive) was like sailing a transatlantic ship which would never wreck. Yet they were caressing, gentle. It was like he was afraid of the size and power of his own hands, so he was particularly careful with whatever he touched. He had a way of seizing and handling things (either his guitar or a simple glass of water) that deeply moved me. And whenever he touched me I felt like falling apart, and the hairs in my skin would make me look like a porcupine, and my lips would colour and swell like a blooming flower. And when his hands weren’t doing anything, he rolled them into, like feeling ashamed of their enormous size, and this was the moment I felt I had been born to expect, because finally I could reach for his hands to match mine.