Monday, 24 November 2014

The ramifications of lost lust.



My mouth is dry and still tastes like last night’s whiskey. Not sure if I am hung-over, or simply love sick.

She belonged to me as the air of my last breath now belongs to another. Here for a moment, gone just as quick.

I remember the moment well. It was a Tuesday, the air was damp, and a cool breeze ran across my fingertips as I turned the corner. There she was, standing alone and completely out of place.

Our eyes met. We exchanged a smile before a hug and a polite kiss on the cheek. Lost and confused, she was happy to see a familiar face.

And so, it was on a Tuesday that my life took a sudden turn. I drove her home. She sat, legs crossed in a high-waist short pencil skirt. Her legs drove me fucking nuts. It was a view that, even now, paralyzes my ability to think of anything else.

The car filled with energy and not one innocent thought crossed my mind.

“I don’t feel like going home,” she said.

Our eyes met after she spoke those few night-altering words. No language was needed. It was a look that felt like a playful tease, an invitation that I would not, and could not turn down.

‘I’ve got this,’ my heart yelled to my brain – famous last words.

Drinks were had and conversation flowed. As the third round showed up, she laughed at one of my quick-witted remarks and touched my arm, just a moment too long. Touch is a dangerous thing, especially one with this much energy.

She could have me crawling on my hands and knees, begging for more. She became my drug, my heroine, and I was happily addicted. She created constant yearning, a thirst, a want, a fucking need that I could not satisfy. She longed for me as I for her.  Back torn by nails in pleasure, lip fat from a bite too deep, clean sheets stained – my addiction left me sore.

On a Tuesday, minutes became hours, hours became days, and days became a week. She couldn’t leave my side and I couldn’t leave hers. Work missed, calls ignored, the outside world ceased to exist. She loved my every guilty pleasure and I granted all of hers. I would listen as she spoke in her sleep, I would laugh when she complained about the fingerprints on my wine glass, and for once I would be at peace, with her head on my chest.

Then, on a Tuesday, something was different. It started with a look as she entered the room. No words were needed, nothing had to be said. It was a shout for distance, a demand to be free. It was clear to me this sudden spark, this flash of lightning, was over as quickly as it began. 

Shattered now like broken glass on the floor, its deep notes being played on a piano in the back of my mind, a heaviness of loss crushing my chest. It’s the smell of her perfume on the once clean sheets I won’t wash that keep me awake. It’s looking at my phone every minute, struggling with ‘do I text her or don’t I?’, an argument I have with myself over and over again – damn it, I did. No response. Just the tiny words that change from delivered to read.

This would be the time I find some positive spin. This would be when I have something smart and witty to say.

But I don’t. All I have is that I miss her….


Fade to fucking black.