Saudade

It was easy to forget the passage of time in Chacahua, especially on evenings when we would lie side-by-side in the dingy boat to contemplate the tragedy of stars, rocking back and forth every time a crocodile swam by, its sinuous tail trailing bioluminescent lights along the wake. Above us, the universe unravels slowly, tendrils of stardust spreading across the sky as I scribble Spanish poetry into your skin, the ink staining in fractal patterns along the wings of your back.

At some point, between the mutterings of giant bullfrogs and chirping insects, I felt (more so than heard) your breathing quiet and slow, leaving me a bit more lost and alone, despite the steady warmth radiating out from underneath your sleepy skin. I blink up at Ursa Major, quietly trying to stop myself from imagining a life after Mexico, and fail. You wake up without a word, eyes still closed, and hold my trembling hands tightly against your own, not letting me slip through the cracks and spaces between your fingers.

"Just until the cuervos stop singing", you promise, even as you leave bruises against my wrist (scattered like constellations). In the early morning light, I find your marks embedded deeply into my skin, and my secret hope is that they will never fade.