Thursday, April 11, 2019


You take fast, shallow breaths the way you do when you're watching porn. This is the first time he's touching your skin, tasting you. Everything is technicolor lurid, dream lucid, summer languid, amniotic fluid. It had almost become forgotten, the taste of skin rubbing against hair, against tongue, against saliva. There's a penis, there are tongues, and a clit. There are fingernails digging into skin. There is so much skin, so much flesh. You bite. He bites. She bites. Wait, you say. I need to remember this. She looks out the window at the crescent moon, recalls for some reason what the snapshot of a black hole looks like, meshes it with all their feelings of being there in that moment, and the millions of moments she had experienced from within the womb to then. This moment has happened an infinite number of times before this, this moment will happen an infinite number of times after this, this moment is happening this once and it will never happen again. She tries to level her breath, tries to be present in the moment, thinks of a singular breath travelling from the room into her nostrils, into her lungs, into her blood. Happiness has never tasted so lasting, nor felt so fleeting. There is a first time for everything, so make that first time last, not the last.

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