Where are the love letters written by him during the wee hours of the morning with his mind slightly addled with alcohol that says he loved ******* her raw and he also loved her desperately?

Where are the love songs that were sappy but genuine and Ella Fitzgerald's voice that talked of dreaming and loving and living?

Where are the stolen kisses under trees and the flowers that wilted the next day and the girls giggling under blankets talking about fingers slipping under skirts and first times?

Lost. Gone. Probably forgotten.

she liked

the idea of

being consumed

she sometimes dreamed of

being devoured

by the dark

and then she’d wake up

and realize

it wasn’t a

dream

the bittersweet taste

of a last kiss

will always be fresh on my lips

the press of mouth on mouth

the battling of tongues

using saliva and passion

to say goodbye

his scent

still lingers in

the deepest corners of

my mind and

sometimes i take it

out to smell it only

to realize

i smell nothing

because i couldn’t remember

anymore

an open book

on the desk

clothes strewn

across the floor

a fine layer of dust

covering the

surfaces

a bed not made

but made love in

this is our love nest

and we love

all day

the rain dances tonight

its soft legs gliding

through the night

and i dance with it

my skin wet

from its exuberance

she liked

the idea of

being consumed

she sometimes dreamed of

being devoured

by the dark

and then she’d wake up

and realize

it wasn’t a

dream