A small dark brown, tear-drop scar by your right eye. You said you got it from a freak motorbike accident (you freaked out and fell off the bike) but I thought it was beautiful. Like your eyes. Deep pools of ebony on white, they weren’t large eyes. You squinted a little when you spoke, they did however, contrast perfectly to your skin. I loved your skin. It reminded me of my hot chocolate when I put one too many spoons of cocoa in the milk. Creamy, not quite dark brown skin; makes-me-want-to-reach-out-and-touch-you skin.
You were a bit gangly-though all boys are at that age. You carried your 5ft 4 frame with all the purpose of a private school brat. One who spoke English and spoke it well; who knew the difference between chardonnay and champagne; who got the same kicks form reading Edgar Allen Poe that he did from riding a bike. A cheeky boy, but lovable none the less.
I remember the bag you gave me for my birthday. 11 years later it still smells of you: expensive masculinity; a boyish sophistication that subtly made its presence known and would not let you forget that its origin stood by you.
My body was a sensor to your presence. My stomach did cartwheels s my heart raced to the sound of your name A name that resonated of Africa; of Kwaito dances and dry savanna; of Simba raised triumphantly over pride rock for all to see and acknowledge. You walked up to me and my skin bristled. As if every hair on my body was trying to feel out your mood; your touch.
You smiled and I was lost. In a crooked pathway that traced a path from one side of your face to another. Leading up to a small, dark brown, tear-drop scar. Beautiful.