I am inhaling this air along this dead lake, smelling of sand and still water and it is making me nostalgically sad, making me helplessly remember the fragrance of your neck. As I crawl upon the stone over which I sit, trying not to weep, remembering you, I find these ecstatic nights, deliberately coming to me like a shuffle of cards and it occurs to me that I can’t choose one over the other. The nights when I dug my tongue behind your earlobe and moved it along the delicious curved neck, looking deeper into your half shut eyes screaming at me to make you a little more seduced, a little more loved. A little more mine.
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