The taste of his body is finally tangible. No more walking by him thinking, why can’t I smell him, familiar odor long gone, only a memory left in its wake. Now as I pull him close, lick over wounds I inflicted and wonder how we ended up here in this bed, clothes scattered to the four walls in haste as we scrambled to touch and bite and work ourselves to a sweaty release, it hits me.

A simple confession, never meant to be uttered aloud. Never meant for his ears because I believed him dead.

I always liked your poetry.

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