postcard

sitting with my legs wrapped around your waist, bare back as I press my thumbs into your shoulders, straighten out the knots, follow the tissue. or nestling my face in your neck, intoxicated by your perfume. slip my hand into your pants, trace the grooves of your torso with my tongue, taste your spit, adore the scratchy-softness of your face. beautiful beautiful memories drenched in sorrow. but what a privilege is it to have loved? snippets of what we were litter my thoughts like postcards. there is feeling, but never regret. the sorrow grows dull, grows ever so slightly sweeter. because you're just a man. a man, stood two feet from me and I felt nothing. the grazes on my knees remain moisturised. on occasion I pick at the scab. and so, beneath them, this youthful pinkness perseveres.