A Trashy Reminder

You know that condom wrapper (one of about four we used) that you couldn't find that night after we fucked again after we just happened to run into each other at Monday Karaoke night?

I found it the next morning on the floor on the far side of my bed, having been hastily ripped and discarded.

I've left it there and its been three weeks since Karaoke night.

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The far side of the bed and its secrets.

I let it languish there and let it serve as an instant reminder of the heavy breathing, the pounding in my head, the biting kisses, of clinging to one another in the shower, your mouth on my kitten with the warm water sliding down my body and making droplets form on your eyelashes, and the way you kept your eyes on mine as you slid into me.

I feel like if I pick it up and throw it away (like any good girl would), it would kill the memory, cleanse me of it and painfully free me of the physical tie I still have to that night, to those sensations and to you.

I saw you again last night, at Karaoke night and somehow it wasn't the same. It hadn't been months since the last time I saw you like before, I didn't crave your body like before and the heat just wasn't the same when you kissed me and held me from behind while we listened to the band and rubbed the palms of your hands and your long, long arms down my hips and the tops of my thighs.

I still wanted you but this time it wasn't a fever and I knew that you knew it too.

When I stumbled home at 3 am I fell into bed, staring at the ceiling, an inebriated yet somehow jaded smile on my face. I turned to the space on the floor where the condom wrapper fell to and has stayed for weeks and reached out to it. My hand stopped short and I pulled it back, staring at the little, shiny, gold wrapper, feeling your breath on my skin, your rough manly hands on my breasts, my stomach.

I left it there.

I didn't want to let go, not yet at least.

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