The best days were the ones when we could spend hours tumbling across our bed; hugging, kissing, rolling away and toward one another as fingers tickled and lips met flesh as raspberries. We had fun.
Hardly would it ever be sexual; though, of course, sometimes it did. Our rumbling was usually much more innocent, however. We were just two boys enjoying the company of the one we cherished more than any other thing in the world.
We could spend half a day in each other's arms, staring into the deep brown eyes of the other, tracing our hands across the other's body, hair, face; exploring the being that enveloped everything we held dearest in our heart.
Almost every encounter ended with a nap; our heads resting somewhere on the other's body. I usually picked his thighs. They were firm and supported my head well. And when I would wake up, I'd be able to look up across his body and see him resting peacefully. The most beautiful sight on Earth.
Eventually, we'd migrate into two spoons, for comfort's sake. I'd try to be the bigger spoon, so I could hold him; so I could breath gently across his ear, and kiss him gently on his neck. I loved his neck. It was warm. It was the softest part of him, and I imagined we were wolves and I were nuzzling into his mane. He smelled like graham crackers.
These were the best days because they were love. Love, affection, tenderness, care; all words that describe our feelings for one another were defined and made physical by our being on the bed. Everything I enjoyed about my world, about humanity, about life, was real and warm and present.
I'd give anything to have it back. Nothing else compares to that. No chocolate could be as sweet; no wine as intoxicating; no movie as entertaining; no piece of art as thruthful. Life existed strongest in those moments. I will always remember how it felt.
Those were the best days.
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