In order to exorcise the deamon
we need to look back
and start from the beginning.
She with the pale skin and the freckles and red hair.
Her with her exquisite body and taste and intensity.
The ability she had to drive me mad.
How infuriating it was when she would kiss me on an escalator, but then not at a crowded station.
Her skin her skin her skin.
The way we found the perfect position in bed; how we could spoon but her hair wouldn’t tickle my face. How my arm fit somewhere beneath her body in bed that didn’t hurt.
Pretending, once in that position, that we were going straight to sleep. Both of us playing chicken with the other. How long could we wait? Other times when we’d run home from wherever we were and go straight to bed.
That hair. That fast bouncy walk. Tight black jeans. Gin and tonic. Through a straw. All that mascara obscuring those eyes. The rings she wore on her fingers. Kenzo perfume.
Cooking breakfast going for lunch going for dinner all the time. Waiting till the last minute to tell me I couldn’t go back to hers. When she winked at me. That skin.
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Was it odd to obsess over these ordinary things? Or are they the root of love? Which came first, noticing these ordinary things, letting them stack up to become love, or was it the love that turned these ordinary things into rare sparks that could be remembered years later? Years after my eyes set on her for the last time.
from 17th jan - 6th feb
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