I’m not ready, to end this freaky affair, I’m not ready, to go nowhere… – Keith Sweat, “I’m Not Ready.”
How does something end without even beginning?
How do you tell “our story”? How will you say how you met me and where we met? How we only made love three times? Three times.
The first time, the first time alone…
How can you talk about that? How can you describe….that?
What will you say?
That you were finishing my sentences after having met me only an hour before…
That your heart was pounding so loudly, I could feel it when my fingers softly touched your chest…
That when you touched me, my body actually tingled and you felt it in your fingertips…
You called it. You said I was electric.
How are you going to talk about loving me?
That I made you moan uncontrollably, even though I covered your mouth with mine..
That I had to hush baby to remind you to keep quiet because your sounds were so sexy…
That you couldn’t keep from staring into my eyes with every thrust, enjoying the look of pleasure, knowing you were giving me that pleasure…
That your body froze once you spilled into me and you called my name. My name…
That you wanted to swallow me whole with every kiss…your tongue exploring and never tiring and wanting more and wishing time would stand still…
You said I was amazing. You called me a queen.
What about the second time? How you spent your birthday in my bed? And how I was trying to wait until midnight to kiss you but I couldn’t wait any longer and your eyes softened like you were in love when I reached over and put my lips on yours? How we were trying so patiently to prolong our love time together so we talked, we talked about why you thought it made sense that I like giraffes? And how we laughed out loud at your choice of animal and we were giddy and youthful and fun? And how, when you undressed, it was an urgency to have your naked body on my bare skin?
How am I going to forget you? How?
Forget the temperature of your skin.
Forget the warmth of your hugs.
Forget the shape of your lips.
Forget the long stroke of your slender fingers.
Forget that scar above your eyebrow, the one I always ask about.
Forget the feel of your back on my fingertips.
Forget the strength of those legs that keep me pinned to this bed.
Forget the length of you that fills me completely.
And the last time….
If I knew that would be our last time, you’d still be here.