You used to innocently touch me in public, in front of her. Gesturing with your hands while story telling and making certain to allow your fingers to grace my flesh and linger, an ever so subtle connection for my benefit alone. Electricity transferred from that touch down to my center, warming me, winning me. Then later, in my hotel room, you’d call and we would touch ourselves to bliss.
The first time you took me on the hardwood floor in hast and need. Your words turned into wounded knees and bruises, sweat and shame. Events we would hold secret, never to whisper of their effects upon our selves. Deep scars to my integrity wept regret; soothed by lies I’d tell myself.
I tried on amnesia, forgetting as fashion. It never really fit my style. The girl in the mirror looked cheap, off the rack. I imagined it would look effortless, but what was left felt contrived and obscene.
The last time that you saw me was unexpected on your part. A well-plotted happenstance successfully executed. Your look of surprise and smiles a kindness. You touched me then, like old times, encircling my arms with both your hands, emphatically saying it was good. Then whisked away in chaos and madness I’ve not run into you again. Not since. I hoped a chance encounter would remind you I’m still here. But you have always known I’ve no place left to go.