I reminisce often about the taste of his lips after a glass of wine.
I wonder often where he is and whether my lips remain cast in his memory
I shudder to think that he who had such an effect on me could so easily forget and slip into the arms of another without the ghost of my embrace constantly pricking the corners of his mind.
No I don’t love him, and no he doesn’t love me but still there was a connection, a certain passion that should at least count for a vague remembrance of our wreck of a relationship.
When I pass the places we once inhabited and or occupied I wonder does a trace of us get left behind or does the essence of who we are and what we did fade away with washing. Is there an intangible that collects our indelible imprints?
Or are we just letters on the shore in the sand, existing only for a few broken minutes in time.
I’m trying to remember what his lips tasted like, after a good glass of wine.