Softshock Redux

It's summer again, and I'm on the bed, running my fingers underneath the cold side of my pillow. If I switch off the lights, I can pretend I'm back in my rented room in Singapore again, June 2011. If I squeeze my eyes shut, I can almost feel you beside me, sliding your cool hand up my thigh.

***

Nowadays, I just relive snippets of our time together, relishing the details that made our connection so memorable in the first place: The small fan whirring in a corner of the ceiling. The freezing tile beneath my feet as we tiptoed our way to the stiff mattress that masqueraded as a proper bed. The film of sweat that still lingered on the back of my neck from our stroll around the boardwalk. The imprint our bodies made on each other, sliding, sticking, and sliding again. The hushed words we whispered. The laughs we stifled. The tense line of your shoulder blades as you bent down to kiss me. The deep brown of your skin set against your dark hair and darker eyes.

There were fun things I remember that happened outside the room as well: our day-trips around the city and the night-walks we would take afterwards. The way we stepped side by side, arms swinging but not quite touching, matching a beat we wordlessly sang to each other. My hand linked to yours as you pulled me through noisy street markets and past sing-song hawkers to the cozy hole-in-the-wall food stall you like to visit once a week. The blend of smells in the air--spicy noodles, ocean salt, cigarette smoke, and your own woodsy musk. Our sandals thwacking erratically on the pavement as we raced each other down a deserted incline at one in the morning. 

Details flood my mind, and I can't keep track of them all. In the end, when the longing grows to be too much, I force myself to recall our last goodbye at the airport when I shyly slid my arms around your neck and leaned forward, my foot kicking up just so. I have to remind myself that you kissed back too, your hands firm and solid around my waist, your lips soft and wet. I have to tell myself that you remember this too. That you love this too. That I'm not the only one still reeling from the impact of a single week in a city I most likely won't visit again for years.