I can still taste you,
subtle strawberry swirling
over my tongue
tangling with yours.
A sensation
I once professed
to hate
I now
chase,
crave,
let it set
my body alight.
I can still hear you:
your laugh,
your words--
cute,
soft,
beautiful--
your moan intensifying
before going quiet
against my lips.
Every observation,
every reaction,
all echoing through my mind,
wrapping me in your warmth.
I can still feel you,
skin on skin electrifying,
safe and snuggled beneath you,
your size dwarfing mine.
Our bodies together--
waiting, wanting,
impatient but
perfectly in time.
It's too much,
it's not enough,
it's not what I've felt before,
it's
so
much
more.
Love...
your love...
I can still
taste it,
hear it,
feel it.
Too many people, too many sounds and sensations, too many expectations. The stale, sickening scent of decades' worth of cigarette smoke oozing from the carpets and wallpaper. Laughter and forced conversations between my husband's co-workers and senseless chatter all blurring together over blaring holiday music. I don't remember if I even made it into the event hall. All I remember is that entry way and all the people passing by me, the smell of snow and ice and rock salt on their shoes, while I sat slumped on the floor in hysterics. Not sobs, not subtle tears. Hysterical crying, like a toddler denied a new toy. A spectacle. A few strangers asked if I was ok but walked away when they realized I was incapable of answering. A few people who'd already had too much to drink tried to hug me or pull me towards the party, only making me recoil at their touch. My husband and my friend, Jason-- who I'd only just met at the time-- took...
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