I am that faded photograph. The one that tore as you pulled away. You may not see my face, but you still hear my voice — the honey that turned you into an inferno with every moan and sigh. Time has flaked away the details of our affair, but there are days you still taste me on her and her and her. And yes, they taste my seabreeze sweetness on you, as well. The long silk strands of my midnight tresses often end up in the strangest of places, though you haven’t run your fingers through my hair in months. You hold each strand lovingly, as you try to remember the shampoo that would tantalize you. You then wrap it around your fingertip until it turns blue from loss of circulation, much like your cock. True?
I am that photograph. A memory worn from overuse.