all of him and all at once

i knew there was something about him. something tedious yet beautiful.

his name was paulo. pau' when my tongue felt lazy. 'lo when i was kissing him and swallowing the olives of his eyes and breathing the sun of skin. before i met him, it was the rain and the wilting flowers and the shivering trees that fluttered between my lungs. it was the small unintentional disasters that carved a life in half– the shift of a season, the cadence of a song, or the way flowers wilt that made me feel love. but then it was more than that. falling in love with paulo, loving him, felt bigger than anything i have ever loved in this world. because of him, as stupid as it may sound, i learned what love is truly about.

and truly, love is something you can hold on to for a bit, breathe into it with a type of fondness that can only be wrought out of the deepest corners of your bones, let it pool on the palm of your hand, then watch it as it seeps out between the crevices of your fingers, pouring to the ground to manifest into something better– because letting go is what makes love, love.

love means to accept, that sooner or later, the time to let go will creep up like an unwanted weed in a garden.

when i met paulo, i knew he didn't have much time left, that his days were numbered. but it was one of those things that i tried not to think about. i did not want to love him because he was dying. i wanted to love him because i simply fell in love with him, when i was least expecting. isn't that how the best things in life occur? they always come when you're least expecting them to.

so, i did. i loved him. i loved his eyes, and i loved his smile, and i loved the entireity of him all at once.

i still do. i still love him. because paulo's love, incarnadine and comforting little thing, cluttered the very brim of my heart with veritable pieces of everything warm to the touch, slivers of seawater and sunshine, and starlike whispers that soothed out the wildflower storms that, unknowingly, raged inside me.

* * *

"javier," paulo would whisper in his syrup-thick french accent, the syllables of my name sticking to the roof of his mouth like some piece of candy.

"that's my name," i would say, yawning the sleepiness away, the morning sun dancing upon our naked bodies in swirling, glowing embers.

"good morning," he would say and catch his lip on the shell of my ear, lighting my body up like a firecracker. "good morning, good morning, my javier."

"what do you want to do today?" i would ask him.

he would pretend to think about this for a minute, and then, with a sweet little cheeky smile playing on his lip, "the usual."

our usual was nothing special. it simply meant waking up at dusk and escaping the old throb of this village by taking trains that took take us as far away as possible. we liked getting off on stops that we didn't know where we were. we liked to roam through green fields and stain our skin with the sun, camera clutched in one of paulo's hands, the other one holding tight to my wrist, constantly tugging me along, making me see things i never would have thought of noticing, reminding me that i can breathe and that i am alive.

and that was something he was indescribably good at. at reminding that i can breathe and that i am alive.

on the night before his departure, he told me something i will never forget.

"live," he told me, his billowy white shirt falling off his shoulder as he struck some sort of yoga pose that made me feel sick.

"live," he said, fluttering his eyes shut and staying with his arms up in the air for a minute, two minutes, three, his toes digging into the rug as he balanced himself on one foot.

"live, javier," and he sounded like he was telling me that he loved me for the first time.

i looked at him, the breeze making its way from the partly open glass-window through his hair– short and curly, brown like dirt with streaks of dirty blonde like a pale sunset. when he flicked his eyes back open, there he found me, unable to breathe as a tear trailed down my face.

* * *

that summer, upon paulo's arrival, my nonna hung pots of plants on the tuscan windows of the room he had rented, insisting that the room needs to feel vibrant with a touch of nature, with something soothing and healing.

it wasn't until after i met paulo that i understood her reasons.

my nonna owns the four-story mediterranean building. it is a bright yellow and it is nestled on top of a rickety market that sells fresh produce along with the village's gossip if you're a local. usually, tourists rent the rooms. american couples in honeymoons. businessmen in dark suits. women who had just broken up with their boyfriends and want to remember who they used to be.

there had never been anyone who stayed in any of the rooms because they were dying and wanted to experience something new, and above all, perhaps say goodbye to themselves somewhere far away from home.

it was never a secret. nonna had told me a twenty-four-year-old boy from france was vacating his last couple of weeks of his life in one of the rooms. and that i should be nice to him, be his tour guide, and give him company.

i did what i was told.

* * *

"i'm afraid i'll kill them," was the first words paulo told me the evening of his arrival. his voice shook my bones as if waking me up from a solemn dream. he was standing outside the building staring up at the pots of plants hanging from his window for a moment too long, two moments too long, shielding his eyes from the golden rays of the sun melting on the limestone walls and terracotta roof.

"i have never been good with plants," he added. his eyes then stared right into mine, studying me as if he was searching for something that could only be found deep inside people's hearts.

i stayed silent without intending to, but when a half-smile glazed over his lips, i swallowed whatever was lodging in my throat down and asked him, stupidly, if he could speak spanish.

in french, he asked me if i liked films.

turns out, he did not speak an ounce of spanish. of course, why would he? french was engraved in his tongue like a name carved into a tree. it melted right out of his mouth, briny and sea salt-like.

i never thought that all those painful private french lessons i was forced to attend would finally pay off. at least not like this.

* * *

it was also our usual to go to the local theater in the afternoon. it would always be nearly empty in there, just us and the plastic cups of our wine and a few scattered couples making out.

in those low lights, i would turn a little to watch paulo instead of the film.

it was mesmerizing. his mouth would be set in a natural pout and stained plum-red. he would tilt back against his seat and close his eyes until the film started, fingers playing with the armrest nearest to me, where my hand would be cold and sweaty at the same time.

"did you pay to watch the film or me?" he asked me then.

i wanted to reply with something dumb, like in retrospect, a film will live forever, so i can always watch it later, but you– it won't be forever that i will get to look at you, because i have fallen in love with you, because these past couple of days with you have been the best thing that has ever happened to me.

instead, i said nothing and shifted down in my seat. for some reason, i didn't care that we had only met a week ago. it already felt like a long time. long enough for me to let my head fall to his shoulder and press my nose into his shirt and breathe him in. when i looked up at him, looked past the delicate bone of his jaw, i was instantly drawn to his lips, stained like they were bleeding, stained with unsaid words, with anticipation and sadness and everything that came with life and wanting wanting wanting– everything, everything life has to offer but not being able to have.

i shifted again, this time under the arms of paulo, a sudden unconscious movement, our chests pressing together. i opened my mouth against his shirt and breathed out the breath i was holding the entire time, all damp and hot ember-like.

"you want to kiss me?" he whispered. he was laughing. how cruel.

the films we would watch were always sad. either start sad or end sad. either way, it would be the same. sadness carving a hole to stay, weighing me down the rest of the day. even paulo's pretty smile would hurt to look at, would even feel sad. but sometimes he would kiss that sadness away.

* * *

one day on the train, paulo told me that he wasn't afraid of dying.

"i used to, but not anymore," he said.

after a minute of silence, i found myself thinking out loud,"i wish i would have met you sooner."

"don't say that. i have spent half of my life in a bed, puking my guts out and attached to machines that were definitely more alive than i was. you would have not liked me then, trust me," he said, and for a moment, i had the urge to tell him that he was wrong, but i contained myself. the glaze of his eyes and the soft breaths hinging word afterword were too honest to ruin them.

"everything is so green here," he said a bit later.

"green is the color of life," i said. "i read that somewhere. in some book, i think."

paulo nodded and pursed his lips. he looked out the window. for some reason, i knew what he was thinking.

"that explains everything," he said. "i picked my favorite color wrong."

"what is your favorite color?"

instead of answering, paulo wriggled uncomfortably in his seat. "can we get out at the next stop? i'm feeling dizzy."

when we got off the train, paulo was all gray. he insisted that he needed a minute. a minute of what i assumed of fresh air and silence. about four feet apart, we sat down under a tree that hugged the earth with all that it had. after a couple minutes, paulo's colors returned.

i wanted his colors on my skin. i wanted them to paint a picture, a palette that soothes away the little pains that sometimes smears all over me. i wanted my colors to kiss his skin. to soothe away the little pains, bigger than mine, that were smearing all over him. the little big pains that were cutting his life short, killing him.

"i'm not supposed to do this," paulo whispered breathlessly, closing the gap between us and reaching out to press his thumb into the exact center of my lower lip, dragging it down a little. "i'm not supposed to. i am not supposed to be here with you, liking you like this. back home, my family is planning my funeral." and then he laughed as if he was telling a joke.

"paulo–" but i did not know what to say.

a peony was then shortly plucked into my hair, paulo's pretty hands tilting my head just slightly to plant a cold kiss on my lips.

"sorry," he said right after, slowly pulling us apart. his lips twitched slightly at the corners as if he was searching for something to say. instead, he let out a shaky breath.

"are you okay?" i asked him.

he shook his head. the wind tousled his hair over his sleepy eyes, casting shadows that made him look even more tired, even more ragged. "never okay."

i let out a pained sob, my mouth opened just slightly. i closed my eyes and only saw the color red. when i opened them, slowly, as if waking up from a dream i did not want to wake up from, paulo let his head fall to the side so our eyes could meet again, sitting up straight and closer, so close i could hear the thrumming of his heart.

he looked at me intently. there was something in his eyes that caught on fire and burnt me and made everything spin in flames.

"i like the color of your eyes," paulo whispered, warm and warm all over. "blue is my favorite color."

that night, i stared at my eyes in the mirror and thought of paulo kissing them, swimming in all the blue of them.

* * *

paulo liked many things. he liked the touch of grass on his bare skin, and he liked the feel of the sun in his eyes, and he liked the sea-salt scent this little old town has. he liked to read under the hug of a tree and liked the wind tousling his hair. he liked poetry and thought being alive was a poem itself. he liked shadows and dappled light. he liked watercolors and classical music.

"now it's your turn," he told me. "what do you like?"

i thought about it longer than i should have. long enough for the sun to play a long game of hide-and-seek with the clouds. it's not like i don't know myself. i've always known what i like and what i don't like and what i want and what i don't want. if anything, i am more aware of my likes and dislikes and wants than anything else, if that makes any sense. but back then, all i was thinking about was the color green of his eyes and the color blue of mine morphing all into a sea of one.

* * *

(my favorite thing was to look at him right after we would kiss. the furrowing of his brow, like he too, had a blooming, sparkling, and unspeakable love nestling in his heart. the lifting of his lashes. the lines on the corner of his eyes. the dip of his collarbones. the sound of his heart beats; all that sweet and gentle shifting of his body, the warmth of his chest.)

* * *

some days, we would throw blankets over the lime green of the grass and watch the sunlight go for a swim in the river, and then us after it.

other days, paulo would chase me and tug my wrist along as if this little old town in the toes of spain was rooted deep in his bones and he knew every little secret nook of it. it was hot and bright, and after bathing in the creek, our honey-glazed skin yearned for more and more and more, restless and what not.

sometimes, we would even elope every steep alley and climb the roofs of whitewashed buildings to take in views of the countryside and the sea. we would pedal through the cobbled streets, happy happy happy, a basket of fresh fruits nonna would give us, the burnt-honey sunset behind us.

* * *

that happiness, however, was short-lived, because like the edges of a book in flames, everything ashed toward the day paulo left back to france, when i would never get to speak to him again.

he died a month later. his mother told me the news after i finally found the courage to go to the nearest phonebooth to call him, afraid to hear those exact words.

it felt hollow at first.

and then i realized that the hollowness in my chest wasn't hollow at all. it wasn't ever hollow but a space precisely carved for a summer memory to stay and sleep for however long it wants. a summer memory of paulo's ocean-lingering voice and the quiet green of his eyes and the soft curls of his hair tangling between my fingers. .

i have learned that time soothes but doesn't completely heal. grief will always gnaw at my bones like hungry teeth. and both pain and grief are things i have learned to carry with me as i try to find that place where i can plant my roots again. after all, love means to let go, right?

* * *

it only rained once during paulo's stay, when it did, we didn't leave paulo's room until the sky cleared the next day.

"javier, tell me the story of you," paulo was in the doorway, shirtless, the dark figure of him playing hard to catch with my eyes.

sitting on the side edge of the bed, i reached down to my trousers in search of my cigarette box, pulled out one, and lit it. sleep was still clinging to the inner corners of my eyes. a sleep that was cotton candy-sweet and sticky, lovely and soft, clinging onto me and melting into paulo's pillow.

"what do you want to know?"

paulo walked closer, stepping into the pool of golden light from the lamp, and stopped in front of me. he grabbed the cigarette from my fingers, dropping it in the glass of water he drank from to swallow his medicines.

"everything," he said.

i peered up at him. there were so many things i wanted to say, but i was afraid of time not being enough. likewise, i wanted to know the story of him, too.

paulo extended his hands to grab mine, brushed the inside of my palms, soft and smooth like the skin of a peach, thin and brittle, easy to bruise. his fingers then tangled around my wrist but didn't really hold down.

"when i was little," i began. "nonna told me that trees can listen to you. if you tell them your secret, they will keep it. even if they lose all their leaves in the winter, they will never let go of your secret."

"do you have a secret?" he asked me. then smiled something that was endearingly sweet but wouldn't look at me, wouldn't look at me as if he was afraid of what he would find in my eyes, maybe fearful of my secret.

i untangled my fingers from his hands and hooked them around his waist instead, tugging him closer closer closer until the space between us was no longer big enough to breathe. we embraced each other, chest to chest, in our own safe space, in our own little bubble where life was kind for a little while.

i stared as paulo's eyes disappeared behind his lids, the sudden fragility of them as i whispered my secret in his ear.

paulo whispered his later that night when the moon and the stars came out.