It wasn’t sex.
It was forgetting —
aggressively, desperately,
with the lights off
and the voices mute
and the ghosts between us
pretending to moan.
You said “harder”
like you were owed.
Like every thrust
was more interrogation
than intercourse.
You touched me
like intimacy had deadlines.
I kissed you
like it was punishment
for trusting me.
We weren’t two bodies
burning biology.
We were two burn victims
sharing bandages.
You weren’t wet —
you were unraveling.
And I wasn’t hard —
I was angry
at the universe
for making skin
feel like safety
just long enough
to get used to it.
We came
like we were releasing hostages
into an endless vaccum.
And once we were done,
we didn’t clean up —
we erased.
Wiped the sweat
and washed the stains
like crime scene residue.
Tossed the condom
like a severed alibi.
Didn’t talk.
Didn’t cry.
Didn’t cuddle.
We lay there,
the air between us
hungover
in protein,
pheromones,
and post-coital regret
We lay there,
like ruins in a war
both sides claimed they didn’t start.
You whispered,
“Next time,
don’t look me in the eyes.”
And I didn't,
but we fucked.
Or maybe
we didn’t fuck.
We forgot.
We borrowed lust
like liars borrow names
just to feel belonged.
And in the morning,
we both left
like fugitives from our own bodies.
No goodbye.
No closure.
Just two people
who mistook touch for therapy
and called the relapse
“chemistry.”
And the orgasm?
It wasn’t climax.
It was the closest
either of us came
to disappearing.
Because sometimes,
the body says yes
just to drown memory
in hormones —
and grief wraps itself
in latex,
hoping the flush
makes the forgetting permanent.
No comments:
Post a Comment