Love Story

If temptation has a face, and sin a body, it is hers. If seduction has lips, it is found in her kiss. Her eyes, a hue yet to be captured by the finest artist.  A look as breathtaking as a sunrise, and as comforting as the sunset. Her eyes… I’ve drowned a thousand times in their depth, each time discovering treasures neither she nor I knew existed. An abyss so deep and dark, yet so full of light and warmth. Her skin, the color of sandcastles on a beach under a pale moonlight.

To call this love or an obsession would be an understatement. A muse, a zahir, would be rug burn in comparison to the white flame of passion she set ablaze in the nucleus of my soul. 

For it is she who acquired my heart and fiddled with it for a decade. A priceless instrument she kept sacredly, never allowing anyone to touch it, peep it, nor test it. 

To say this is simply a love story would be disrespectful to any couple who has emerged from the darkness with a lonesome spark of hope. Love is a truth that minds design and weave into lies, put aside as an emotional fact that is often misconstrued with other feelings that stand beneath it. A fact can be a thought. A truth can be felt. Two different worlds. Same symmetry, and so often misunderstood.

I met her through a letter. A stranger to me and I suppose a friend to her, convinced her to write to me and curiosity compelled me to push the pen and write back. So I did, rapidly. She seemed to write so candidly, with an uncut sensitivity. I, in return, wrote with nonchalant intensity. She intrigued me. I’d read her letters like scripture, seeking interpretation in every word, a revelation between every line. She was as real and mysterious to me as the gospel. Her thoughts were my daily bread that my spirit ate with delight. I would write with a feverish impulse. She was my poetry, and I her poet. 

The mail came daily. I anticipated her words, the lipstick printed kisses, the witty P.S.’s. Her fragrance embraced each page. A smell that made me reminisce on memories I was making for the future. I opened each envelope like a gift with the eagerness of a child on Christmas. 

Page upon page she expressed herself, reintroducing herself to my imagination. She had a flare, a hunger that complemented my appetite. Her words quenched a thirst I had within. A seed of love was sprouting for a young woman who I had yet to see, and realistically speaking, probably never would. 

Many times my thoughts would double-dutch between reason and logic. Was this mere entertainment? A passage of time? Was this an interest of heart or of ego, tuition or intuition? Our pens would grow bold and pose these dubious questions and the ink would relieve our worries by answering freely and sincerely. 

As days passed our thoughts mingled. I would lock myself in my room and write. I could have written with my eyes closed and every word would still ring true. Then the day came when I heard her say my name… and it sounded sweeter than the laughter of a newborn. I heard her voice through a ventilation system and it has been in my system ever since. An unforgettable song stuck in my head. If what is written is etched in stone then what is heard is embedded in hearts. ‘Til this day, my heart still sings along to the melody of her voice. The flavorful way in which she said my name still holds a lovely taste in my ear buds. We spoke of what we wrote, and wrote of what we spoke. Vibrations are the foundation of sound, the universe’s instrumental energy. The vibe was a force between us. A love song was being written live over the airwaves of a prehistoric ventilation system open to intruders and avid ear hustlers.

 We even went as far as draining the water out of our toilets to open another avenue of communication. Yes we went through some shit, but shit is often the best fertilizer. 

Love was being cultivated in a miserable building that should have been condemned, destroyed, and never built again. In this place where sunshine is forbidden, she occupied a small space on the second floor, and I a similar spot on the eighth floor. So when I say we spoke, I meant to say we yelled and hollered like Tarzan… and never has shouting sounded so pleasing and appealing than hearing her scream she loved me. 

This carried on for months until an unsuspected court date caused officers to disturb a dream-filled night. I was awakened and told to prepare to be transported to court. Obviously, I was unaware of this court date, but in those days, options were scarce and held ridiculous consequences. Unbeknownst to me, on the second floor the same drama was unfolding. Same script, different cast.

That night, destiny had its first blind date with fate. Never in my life have I found Lady Luck to be attractive, but in the wee hours of the night she was flirtatious. Coincidence had been removed from my beliefs ever since that morning. Everything has a reason and meaning, even if the simple complexities of it are not grasped by our irrational minds. 

Whether she noticed me first or I saw her is still unknown. What I do know is that when I saw her, I knew exactly who she was. 

If opposing forces of law enforcement were not between us, we would have danced the dance of souls who have waited lifetimes to find each other again. She threw her attention to me. I drew it in, admired it, and threw mine back. I knew it was her. It was certain. 

Quickly, she was being led my way. Headed in a straight line with about 20 other females who were irrelevant to my world. She stood out, like a goddess amongst mortals. A swan in an unkempt pond. My eyes followed my heartbeat to her steps, drunk off the sway of her hips. She reached my aura, breached my comfort zone and greeted me with three words. I shot back with two. Then the bad shepherd forced the female herd forward. My eyes stalked her. She looked back at me, then my vision lost her behind a steel sliding door. 

Would you think me foolish for saying wishful thinking works? Wise I am not, a fool I have been, but a wishful thought with a delightful visual can manifest the purest desire if the right intent and focus are behind it, especially if both purposes are pointing towards the same direction. You see, a heart tends to search for another heart the moment it is born. Mine found hers…. And it wouldn’t be denied.

Whether through romance of faith and hope or the graceful attendance of Lady Luck, we managed to end up face to face on a battered D.O.C. bus, where tags, sets, and graffiti held history and lineage. Messages like “God is good’” and such and such “was here” and such and such “loved” so and so. We stood there, divided by metal chicken wire and sweat stained Plexiglas. When I stepped on the beaten bus and  into my reserved compartment, she was there standing in a wonder woman stance, waiting confidently as if she knew her will would present me, and I came. I stood there in shackles and waist chains, a foot away, a galaxy apart. I understood our transportation’s decorations. Yes. “God is good.” Yes. “I am here.” Yes, “I love her.” Our eyes met, our souls kissed, and I thought to myself, “She isn’t right, she’s righteous.” Then I felt myself fall deep into golden olive waters… and that was the first time I drowned in the depth of her eyes. 

Written. Heard. Now observed. No vent, no paper, pen, or censorship. We wasted no time. Introductions were cleverly made. We played around identities. It was her, and I was him. The physical attraction was a steroid. Our relationship had a face and a figure to go with it. Everything was automatically enhanced. We were able to touch fingers though a small gap in the Plexiglas. It felt like the beginning touch of creation, the E.T. phone-home finger glow. Good couples claim to have chemistry. I believe we had that too, but we also had electricity, and it was powerful.

For a little over an hour we spoke of hope, the future, and a single promise. She was so gorgeous. The beams of the passing streetlights would illuminate her face briefly and each time I would dive back into her eyes and explore her soul. If the Egyptian goddess Isis ever felt a tingle of jealousy, it was over this earth angel who had enchanted me. I feel in love that night… and I never got back up. 

Our destination eventually crept up. The weight of my chains came alive again. My emotional atlas slumped my shoulders. How could a beginning end so soon? I delayed my exit as long as I could. I heard the engine rest in peace, a pair of boots dragging sand across the pavement, the jingle of keys, the guard unlocking the door. A few dim lights that still functioned in the bus’s interior came on. We held each other’s stares with unspoken goodbyes and a promise… It was at that moment, that I held my breath, dove once again into her soul and anchored my heart at the bottom. It was time to go. I had to leave, so I left her with what I’ve protected until that day… my heart. 

I broke eye contact and resurfaced. I stepped off the bus disoriented, mixed emotions remixing themselves. The memory of that night… I lived off it for years. Her smile had been my mental wallpaper in every cell I’ve occupied.

Memories grow old, even though we don’t want them to. We want them to remain young and beautiful, so we dress them up, cover them in make-up and apply imaginative surgery trying to preserve them. We do this no matter how much of the memory loses the appearance of what it once looked like, but the memory of that day needs no sip from the fountain of youth. Its natural beauty has sustained and will always remain as vivid as today.

I smile at the image of the young girl smiling back at me on a bus full of believers and doubters. 

Throughout the events of that day, I was blessed to catch quick glances of her, two more snapshots for my mental gallery. Polaroids developed by a breath of fresh air. As for Lady Luck, she was gone before sunrise, because my heart and I were on separate buses for the ride back. No, it was not a coincidence that we saw each other, nor was it a mistake that both our court dates were mistakes… We should have never been on that bus together, but we were.

Unfortunately, I did not see her again for 13 years.

We got back to our small boxes, a king and queen forced to live in little eight-by-ten squares. Life really can be compared to a game of chess, and it sucks when life has you constantly in check, never allowing you to move freely. Even though the king and the queen were on the same board, our love was boxed in, chess, life. I understood the stupid metaphor. 

After my first sight of love, the letters got longer, our bond stronger. We attempted and invented ways to see each other, like faking medical emergencies to meet up in the clinic. Really though, who has chest pain at 23? Nurses saw right through our charades. We still hollered through the vent, went through occasional shit like a plumber to tend to our love. My sister would set up three way conference calls at specific times so we could link up with collect calls. We thought of doing the unthinkable and got denied the privilege of marriage under some pretenses of “it’s too soon,” “you’re both too young,” “the future is too murky.” Those were the words of the facilities chaplain, with her divine division and hopeless vision. Yet, we continued our pursuit. Life appeared to be on the pinnacle of positivity… then came an avalanche of despair. 

I lost trial, sentenced to life, plus 25, plus 15 just in case). Faith and hope became enemies, hood rats. God no longer was good. I became a P.O.W. in the hands of the D.O.C.

She cried. I know she cried because she told me. If I cracked, I knew she’d break, so I kept intact, and through it all, she still loved me. Still held on to the promise of a kiss. 

Shortly after losing trial, my priorities zigged when they should have zagged. I wore a thug-life attitude with style and that trend came with more problems than a math book. I got jammed up and moved to the other side of the building. Twenty-four hour lock up. I’ve been there done that, so I’m thinking, “no pressure… no diamonds.” Then reality slapped the shit out of me. No more vent.  Her voice echoed in my soul.

We still wrote daily, had the pen doing overtime, but I missed her voice and hearing her say my name. The conference calls were also out of the question because we couldn’t properly set up a time or date through snail mail. 

Then it all came to an end on a cold night in May. I was sent to prison, an unexplainable transition. You’d have to experience it yourself if you want an explanation. What I will say is that man truly does adapt to his environment and if he’s not conscious of the change within himself, he will become a product of it. 

Communications got mixed. Connections through corrections can be very discouraging. The worst is expected, so the worst is always thought of. A hard habit to break, so I went through a spell, wondering why it all stopped. 

Then I got mail, a lot of it, that had been on my trail. It was her of course, still loving me. She said she was depressed and missing me and that she pleaded out to five years and was waiting to go to prison. I answered back to every letter. I wrote my fingers cramped. I told her I loved her and how I was feeling. I encouraged her and told her she would get through to the end of her sentence like a period and years later she did. She succeeded and beat the statistics of recidivism. 

She jumped out in 2006, a year after my sister died and a year or so after that she almost died in a car accident which I wasn’t informed about. She just vanished, so I was dealing with two ghosts. I lost my sister, thought I had lost the young woman who held my heart, so the only thing I had left to do was lose myself. Crazy thing is, is how many things you find out about yourself and those around you when you lose yourself. I found myself through and she found me too and we found things together. There were gaps, disappointments that gave birth to expectations that were greatly appreciated. There was more death, loss, and thoughts constantly drifting down the river in Egypt. 

Through the calendars we were always there for each other. Sometimes on paper, a picture, a dream, a whisper in the air, but mostly in the memory of an unforgettable bus ride. It wasn’t easy, not one step of the way. 

I’m quite sure God is good, just not all the time. As for the devil, I heard he lurks within the details, so I kept him out of this because some things are just too personal to write about. Secrets of the heart are never meant to be shared. Secrets that are spoken are never really secrets to begin with. They’re just spark plugs of controversy, conspiracy, and gossip. So forgive me if I’ve robbed readers of their curiosity, for I know how entertaining violence, larceny, and the next man’s failures can be.

I think of love when I think of her and what we’ve been through. Why she never forgot me, or why she held on to me for so long tucked away in Pandora ’s Box, I don’t know. I’ve asked her and I’ve gotten answers, the best one being her smile, a lovely one. 

Love, how do I describe a love greater than our love, or express feelings that are felt without words? For centuries poets have tried and still in many ways are words arranged and rearranged and still left unexplained. I try every day.  Love is her never forgetting.  Patiently waiting. 

Thirteen years after our bus ride, I receive the most anticipated encounter in my life. She gets approved to see me. I step out to the visiting park and see the girl who captured my heart. Our eyes meet and eat each other. No restraints, Plexiglas, vent, phone, or pen. 

Our souls did the dance, our lips rushed to touch, chemistry, electricity, destiny. The perfect ingredients.  Lord knows how I’ve dreamed of this moment, how I’ve pictured and viewed it through dry and watery eyes. She fit perfectly in my arms, and she still had my heart. I spoke three words to her, she said four back. That was the happiest day in my life… and I write this from a prison cell. She kept her promise, the only person who has in my life, and the only person who I ever wanted to. 

Past lives were always a realm. My spiritual belief always toyed with, but the way we are together, even when we’re apart, is uncanny. I’m positive I’ve known her for many lives, and I’ll know her the next. We obtain a recipe for love. If you’d ever see us together, you’d smile. If you hear us conversing, you’d laugh at our wit. After all, love is a charm, an intoxicating one that can hold you under its spell forever. 

Yes, I’m still in prison, with a strong mind, free spirit, and a happy heart… and with a love that is paving a road home.

It is her that motivates and inspires me. It is her that was faithful to a promise and loyal to my heart. ‘Til this day, she still runs circles around my world like Saturn. We finally got married on October 2, 2015. She was amazing and still is. 

Is this considered destiny, faith, fate, a roll of the dice, a pen, a word, a dive in her eyes? Is love simply a chance, a risk less taken these days? I’ll leave that to the critics who will pick apart the beats of my heart without understanding my point of view. 

But if you knew her, you’d agree the view is beautiful. Maybe I should’ve added more detail, sprinkled some idiosyncrasies of hope and doubt, but why should I? This wasn’t really written for you. I just shared a little dessert with you, a tiny slice of life. 

I wrote this for her. Today, December 6, is her birthday, and this is my gift to her. Heartfelt words on paper. Remember it all started with a letter and it’s only gotten better. She is the reason I write. 

I love her. I took a vow and made a promise that I will keep,  even in my sleep. 

It is she who consumes my life. Through flaws and all, she is my wife… and her name is Raquel.