An ode to sexuality, for giving us the ability to use it as a ritual to cope with loss.
|23.55 o’clock. I’ve been laying in bed for the past 2 hours, hoping sleep will creep up on me baring the gift of mercy on my forever spinning mind. Desperately aiming to erase your image from my thoughts, battling against the urge to fiercely cling to every memory I have of you, guarding them from the cruelty of obliviousness.
So, every night I recollect them, put them back together, fragment by fragment. I convince myself that is you who persist to haunt me, and so I allow myself again to surrender to the contour of your lips, the reflection of the light in your eyes, your rugged hands tracing the curves of my silk-like naked body.
Unconsciously my right hand that was resting on my chest moves down. I close my eyes and feel the frigidness of my fingers as I caress the swollen outer lips of my labia. Your voice in my head sounds like the music of mandolins and the smell of your skin is like a sultry summer night in August.
My hand movements increase in speed and as I reach orgasm, I find myself wishing that the bright red numbers on my alarm clock would freeze, letting me live forever in this moment, for in this very moment you stole my soul without realizing the seriousness of your crime.
After my toe-curling climax, I’ve never felt as unsatisfied and empty. I fall asleep to the speculation that perhaps tomorrow will be a better day to let ignorance prevail and that spark of hope chased away all the shadows of my cold empty night.