It is hard to write about someone who you came to hate. I don’t really hate you, I hate my body for responding to the good memories, I shape my thoughts in order to cope with the excitement.
Like when you sit on the roof outside the bedroom’s window, and I lay naked on your bed, watching you in the dark. I don’t know if it’s a memory or my imagination, your jaw above by navel, smoke coming out of your mouth, taking the shape of my hips that you grab in the morning, every morning, right after lighting your second cigarette, because the first one belongs to the coffee. My first breath belongs to the coffee too.
You turn towards me, look at me for a long time, I arch my back and open my legs and let you watch, I stretch and think that I’ll be sad the next morning, we are not meant to be together, but here we are and for tonight I’ll leave your smell on my skin. I put my hand between my legs, just gently, softly touching my clit, I can feel it pulsing, it’s synchronized with my heartbeat, it’s responding to your pulse too, because they say that if you look into each other’s eyes for at least ten seconds your hearts find each other. We are the same.
You climb back from the window and stand, unbutton your trousers, one step forward, I slide one finger inside and pull one side open with the other hand. I let the second finger in, but I won’t move, just feeling myself getting more wet. You get closer and push your body against my hands against everything and I forget how to breathe, with your face upon my breasts, your lips brushing my nipples.
The air is electric and I know you won’t fuck me tonight. We love this, don’t we? We create a magnetic field that won’t let us sleep, so close to each other, you being hard between my legs but never really in, liquid pleasure suspended until morning, after your first cigarette, before my second coffee.