i want to write our history of missed opportunities on my skin, and i want one day for you to read it back to me, peeling away gossamer layers of fabric and lace to find the veiled secrets of what was, what might have been, and what is still to come.

there is a rhythm to it – always a rhythm to that secret vocabulary of touch, the dialogue of eyes and hands, the way my body moves with yours against it. when i am with you i am nowhere else, and i think you know that, and you know that this kind of love is unique because all we have to do is hop to the side a bit and we’re somewhere where no one else can find us. you are a man who loves well, and i a woman who loves deeply, until there’s nothing left, and because of this we drink in these moments of rough-voiced singers and martinis like the ocean in my mouth with arms and hands and eyes and lips and exhaled smoke curling to the tin ceiling. some day we will love until there’s nothing left, and then we will sit quietly and say “remember how it was when?” and we will nod and it will be enough.