It’s one of those nights where it’s three degrees outside but feels like the muggy July afternoons we spent together, hiding in your car to use the air conditioner and blasting Brand New and Bright Eyes with our feet crossed on the dash. Where our hair clung to our foreheads in a sopping mess, and we could hardly gather the energy to fuck. But we did anyway, because we figured we were already drenched in our own perspiration, why not each others? Days where we ate our weight in popsicles and replaced the water in our bodies with beer.
The windows were open and the fan rattled in the corner while we slept naked. Well…you slept while I laid next to you, taking in your lanky frame, craving to dive into your subconscious. To penetrate every inch of your mind. I often kept mine sealed from you, knowing if you saw the darkest fissures, this full mattress would be devoid of two.
I protected it so frantically that you withdrew. And before the leaves fell, your pillow was deserted.
Maybe it’s my fever that’s stimulating this aching
Because I have realized that even I have been refusing to explore my cerebral crevices, preoccupied with the consequences. Instead, I am suffering the greatest torment of all.
…The bereavement of love.