You and I were supposed to be easy. I was leaving in ten days and had the world at my feet, and you were a 39-year-old, soon-to-be divorcee looking for someone to screw. We started out that night in a bar, and ended it in each other’s arms, knowing that all we could expect in the morning was awkward silence and a clumsy goodbye.
I didn’t expect your fingers to burn holes in my skin and that I would forget what it was like to not have them there. I didn’t realize that your body would mold to mine and that any moment spent without you would feel like the biggest piece of myself was missing. I didn’t know that I would smile so much more when you were around. I didn’t believe that I could forget, when I left, all that we had to laugh about.
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