Immediately, the smell of her skin no longer filled my senses, and it seemed dry and brittle, not the smooth canvas I had projected my wild fantasies on with my tongue, and studied every birth mark with a calm and calculated finger. She felt lighter beneath me, as the warmth of her rhythmic breathing slowed and steadied itself against my neck. We separated in silence, and my eyes began to trace the dark details of the stranger’s room, her bed suddenly unfamiliar. Her words became dry, careless, and as empty as our limbs drifting across the bed in a vain attempt to brush away the smell of lust that clouded the air with the fragrant gesture of intimacy.

As I lay there, my head resting on the breasts of a stranger, our mouths uttering words without meaning, only familiar sounds we can nod our head and relate too, my gaze goes beyond the walls of the room, and it finds me so happily choking on your long dark hair in giggling tumbles on a bed splashed with a summer morning pouring through the windows and spotlighting the dust we had stirred the night before, as it settled gently on our naked bodies.

Your love was as casual as a handshake, and your beauty sharp and severe, and the odes I have written, claiming your tongue forked, and your touch like death, are but the letters of a child’s scorn, as I lay, so longing for familiar love, in the arms of a stranger who can’t remember my name.

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