If it's just a phase then I guess I have been having a phase my whole life.
You complained about me not calling you enough, and not texting you enough, even not thinking about you enough.
That’s what you said when you called me; or at least that’s what I translated your “Umenitupa” to.
When I assured you I always think about you, that you are never far from my mind, you brushed it off with a laugh and proceeded to tell me about the latest injustice your sister had done to you.
“Alafu akaexpandisha dress yangu. Can you imagine the nerve!” you were saying to my phone.
Of course I could imagine. I have a sister too, although we rarely fight about such stuff.
The phone call was over before I knew it, and when the line was cut, I wished I could be given another chance to listen to your voice complain.
Truth is, I should have insisted more about how I always think about you. I should have told you about how I always think about picking up my phone and texting you Heyyyyyy’s with multiple Y’s and hundreds of love emojis.
I should have told you that I am always thinking about calling you in the morning when I wake up; or at night when I am about to sleep; or during the day when I am eating, or in the evenings when I am bathing, or in the afternoons when I am watching a movie.
I am always thinking about calling you, but then, I stop and remember that time we were in your room. That pink vodka that we bought, that Lyft that we took, those blunts that we smoked, and that kiss that we almost had.
Do you remember that? Because it’s all that has been in my mind anytime you call, anytime you text, anytime that you talk to me, anytime that you tag me in memes, anytime and everytime; it’s there, always there.
Yesterday, you posted a sexual meme. It wasn’t about us, unfortunately. But how I wish it was. How I wish I had a dick so that when you captioned it how dem inches make me feel, I would have hoped that my inches could make you feel that one day.
Unfortunately, all I have to offer is an almost kiss, and my very inappropriate thoughts of you.
Today, you told me you were coming over to my house. You were tired of me being distant, you said. Actually, you did not exactly say that.
You just texted: “Leo tunalewa. “ with such a finality I had no option but to reply with a meek YES. I translated that to you missing me, and you being tired of me being distant.
So you had noticed, I wondered. Could you trace it? When I started being distant , could you trace it?
If you could, maybe you could also remember that drunken night; how we downed more shots than our livers could handle, smoked more than our lungs could afford and laughed more than our stomachs could stomach.
Maybe if you could, you would remember the time we drunkenly decided to try on all the outfits in your room, and how I inhaled deeply when you stood naked before me, ready to try on a dress you had just bought.
If you could, you would remember how I casually requested to button up your dress, and then proceeded to lightly trace your dark neck with my fingers.
If you could, maybe you would also remember how silent we both were, and how when you turned and faced me, it seemed like there was not enough air in the room.
If you could, maybe you would remember how I lightly let my hands wander to your chubby cheeks and then how I stared at your lips, longing to feel them against mine.
If you could, maybe you would remember the way you laughed it off, and quickly removed yourself from that “situation,” , and then proceeded to take another shot.
But I guess you could not trace it, because today when you came over to see me, you had Jack with you.
Jack, the one who gets to feel your lips against his; the one who gets to touch you as light as he wants, the one who gets to miss you without feeling guilty about it.