The light was dim and caramel and each step down the hallway pulled pieces of me towards the floor with something more than gravity until the room was marked with objects stained with me. Jellyfish bloomed up in my stomach with an intricate urgency. I could still taste the steam and soap on your neck. Our bodies were improvisational ossilation. I lost my mouth in your tongue and didn't find it again until you pulled it out of the air. I traced your body with my body in an artistic study of the interaction of line and curve and color. There wasn't enough oxygen and the couch suffocated, we just held our breath and shared contaminated atmosphere. Now I think of you and your hands past tense. Daydreams bend time and space, no longer here, but then-when you wished I wore a dress and I did too and your body was heavy and pink and exposed and I was out of breath with the weight of your heaviness and warm with the proximity or your pinkness.