When the first death has passed


One night, months later, we would wait together in your room between the socks, the boxes, the hoodies and the smiling undies on your floor, talking in hushed tones you laughed at my using. Watching intently eachother’s standing, wishing the parting wouldn’t need us, wishing there weren’t lives to leave for, wanting to drift here in the sea of ragged bedclothes. Your dirty smells infesting my nose, the strange lashes on my eyes quivering on your lips, our tongues somehow expecting open-mouthed exchanges now rendered silent but for the wanderings of these minds.

For me, it was a gushing, childish release in moaning. The first time. When I bled cuddles and soft fingers caressing her to sleep, eyes open in her blond hair, bodies woven and skins bare. Then knowing that moment would be feigned in private hours bare skin flaying for lust at love, desire for sheer romance to skewer my cloud-pillow chest.

This, with you, being long after, faintly perfumed with the rot of pornography and myriad forbidden memories. Your shock one night when I tiredly rolled over to touch my lips on yours: pleading, as it seemed.

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