His hair was rough, wiry even. Like a Scottish terrier’s the
strands scratched my chin as I nestled against his head, his breaths coming
even and controlled against my chest. His hands, smaller than yours and more
delicate, the fingers long and beautiful, an artist’s hands but still a man’s
rested softly against my back, one cupping my shoulder blade and the other
pressed against the hollow. I closed my eyes and thought of you. The darkness
in the room reminded me of the darkness in which you kissed my neck. The way he
does now and as someone else will do from now on. It will never be you again.
I can’t say I miss you, truly I don’t. My love for you died
about the time you ghosted me, that final unspoken message sinking into the
depth of a heart long broken by your inability to love fully. By the way you
crushed me beneath your cold pride and your ego threw that last shovel of dirt
over the grave of our relationship. How that cut hurt when I poured salt into
it, the pain of its sting lasting for a day, then two. Then gone, just like
that. It’s amazing how fast anger heals more than melancholic remembrances.
He cups my cheek in his hand and I sigh into the warmth that
is both alien and home. For a moment I can barely tell the difference between
the two, the reality of his hand on my skin and the mirage memories of yours
touching me the same way. For a moment, I forget to breathe. He is clumsy
still, a pup compared to your precision and your knowledge in bed. But he will
learn. He is gentle and unsure, a combination I loved once, the good boy
learning how to be bad.
Taming a monster is never a challenge I back down from and
God knows I’ve paid the price many times over now. Six to be exact. But this
one has a beautiful soul that’s maybe just as broken as mine. The longing that
rolls off his skin is a mesmerizing thing. It’s so heavy in the air till it
seeps into my lungs; his yearning for human touch is addictive. I remember the
way my skin remembers things. First kisses and awkward hugs that turned into
breathless passionate stolen moments. He will remember this the way my skin
does. Skin memory never forgets.
My mouth on his and I don’t taste you anymore. The taste of
his lips, the shape of his tongue; there’s so much to explore again, so much I’ve
forgotten in the time I was with you and things were routine, habitual. He learns
to kiss me the way you used to do, and the way the rest did before you. He will
learn yet. Lips closed, slowly, gently touch and let go. Come back up for air
and repeat.
Maybe this is lucky number seven, who knows? I will live
through this and right now, the moment s we shared turn to ashes, smouldering
in the heat of my pain and anger. But first remember his lips on mine, stubble
brushing the soft skin of my nape and then my collarbones. Tingling and raw I feel
every inch of my skin, hypersensitive and itching for more. Greedy. My body has
always been a hungry thing and I’ve been starving it so long now.
I learned to let you go, the moment he touched me and felt
the bones of my neglect showing through my skin. The way he skimmed his fingers
over every bump and controlled his tone, light as possible, don’t pain her more
than she has already suffered, that was when I knew it was time to let go. I was
never that fragile really. I simply chose to mourn in the only way I knew how. In
that grieving I found myself and remembered who I was before you. Maybe I can’t
become her again but that doesn’t mean he will suffer for what you did. All the
love I had to give you that you never deserved, maybe it will be his.
Maybe it will be someone who I have yet to know. Someone whose
face I have yet to see light up with a smile that will become my rainy day joy
and a laugh that will make my belly ache. Someone who will feed me when I get
too engrossed watching a show instead of tell me off for being slow. Someone who
will nag me for my OCD habits yet still gently give me ground to control myself
instead of forcing me the way you did. Someone who will love me and fight for
me no matter what. I swear the tears that came as I wrote this are not for you.
They are for me.
I’m mourning the girl who gave all and lost. I’m mourning
the love I gave without thinking and the draining emotions I forced upon
myself. In those dark hours when I wept and howled to the empty four corners of
my room, in the hours you weren’t there for me when you said you’d be, I learned
to trust my heart. It has learned to beat again. Guess what, boy? It’s stronger
than when it was before. But for now, I will enjoy his touch and I will melt,
as I did for you not so long ago. As dawn breaks and streams in through his
window I hope the ghost of you leaves me. I’m done praying for the heart and soul
of us.
~Rachel Alexandrina N.C.L.
