There are still mornings where I wake up with a raging after thought of you and a hard memory aching for release.  I lay in a pool of cold sweat that still has the perfume of your pheromones that you left stiched in my skin.  And I can still feel the warmth of your lips over the scar you left on the inside of my thigh with your teeth the night you wanted to see what would come first... a scream or a moan or the taste of my blood against your tounge.  Your way of loving burned and reduced me to ash every time our flesh tangled and twisted and contorted and melted away until we were nothing but lust and rage and passion fusing together under sheets and over floorboards and in front of mirrors and ontop of counters and parked in driveways and in the downpour of the rain scented by the lost and found ghosts of love.  I don't open my eyes but find myself praying to gods I don't really belive in to fall back to sleep and find this dream of you again and again and find myself questioning if you were ever really real.  Some would say that this was the kind of love you could only read about, that it was the kind of love only madness could dream of... that a human heart and mind and body couldn't survive such a feverish affair.  Or maybe it's just me, maybe I'm the one trapped on a page, the fool and the pawn to some story book queen with ink for blood and paper for skin... if that happens to be true, throw the book in the fire, but for old times sake... read it one more time again and again