Do you remember the way I looked standing in your living room in my lace Victoria’s Secret underwear, or the way my rose buds shaped after your lips detached?

Do you remember how vulnerable I was going into it all? How I opened up to you like a dusty book filled with poetry and prose? You had to lightly touch my pages with your fingertips, and when you would lift them from my pages you would see little specs of blood dripping onto my skin, but it all faded away slowly before your eyes, like fogged up windows in cheap cars in the middle of the night, breaths breathed in unison.

Like our breaths.

Do you remember when you told me that you found my mind to be beautiful, because I opened up yours with my thoughts about the world and the universe? How I would go on about my theories when it came to intimacy and sex?

I remember how beautiful you thought that was, and how intrigued you were by the way I described spiritual debris left behind by people who didn’t love you. How your aural energy becomes toxic with the waste people leave behind. How people don’t know how to cleanse, or how to love.

I remember it all so clearly, because you were even shocked at yourself for wanting to spend more time with me.

However, I have never been one to intertwine with someone’s fingers.

I don’t reminisce - I don’t allow it.

But you see, that’s where I contradict myself.

I don’t allow myself to remember, for fear of pain, but I remember it all, so significantly.

That’s the mind of a writer.