“In the dawn, I wake up to find her gone and a note says:”

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[A few readers have suggested I write a book/novel/memoir.

 

I’m unsure how many would buy it, but this older entry from my private journal would no doubt be part of such a work.]

 

 

Even through the smoke and aroma of whiskey, I still catch their scent.

 

In no more than memory.

 

But it’s captured nonetheless.

 

 

 

I recall the feel of their skin.

 

Their supple, willing flesh touching mine.

 

 

 

I can hear, if I listen hard enough, their increasingly labored breathing.

 

Dirty talk often professing a cleaner love.

 

 

 

When I put my drink down, I can taste their lips.

 

Their hard-earned sweat.

 

 

 

As I close my eyes, I see theirs.

 

Caging a combination of lust and love.

 

Pain and pleasure.

 

Control and surrender.

 

 

 

As I brush my hair away from my face, I feel theirs.

 

Cascading over me.

 

A cover of warmth and softness to replace the sheets we’d long since forced off the bed.

 

 

 

Soon, I’ll go to sleep.

 

Later, awake alone.

 

 

 

Akin to every relationship thus far, the daylight and the accompanying revelations will chase it all away.

 

So, I am compelled to keep things:

 

“Only after dark.”

 

 

 

 

 

Ω