I met one of my soulmates once.
He died in Maine, my favorite place.
I don't go there anymore.

I don't think about it anymore, really.
Except for days like today,
when there are leaves in the air and
I'm stuck staring at the water.

Remembering how he put my life in limbo,
how he awakened a part of me,
who he made me become via domino effect.

The way his hair ruffled up in the salty air,
looking back to see his slightly reddened cheeks mirroring my own.
Him chasing me on the jetty,
staring out into the waves glinting like gold on the crest.
The sand and the sun and the movement.

He was a word I don't use.
I hide it deep inside of me.
I hide the loving adoration,
I hide the fact that I too,
had some of ******'s charm lurking in me.
Waiting for the right person to bring it out.

He stunned me.

He made me a *****, a wanton *****.
And I loved him for it.

My hair still curling at the edges,
like a young child's does.
I was a young child.
And he, a man much older,
a man daring and dashing and perverted
enough to make me lose my innocence.
To make me love.

He killed himself three years after knowing me.
He did this to himself.
We both know that, even now.

I still think about his touch, his mouth, his laughter.
It has been seven years since I have known it,
since I have felt him,
and I still am left with a burning need.

This is what a ******* did to me.
He may have hung himself that day in Maine,
but he did not **** the secret or the desire.

I have felt the toxicity of touch, and I seek it every day.