Date Stamped; Captures from a Careless Afternoon

Photos by Rohan More (@goat_horn_)

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My skin is written all over with dates that are not numbers. These dates are feelings and smells, places and substances entrenched in an insoluble memory of a time that was and now differently is.
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I check each inch of my skin for you; a mark, a bite, a hand visible only to my closed eyes as my fingers run over the something that is nothing, a wisp of my imagination, a daydream.
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1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Count backwards to where it started and how. Count with me to a time when anything was possible. Our world was ours to build, to love, to keep.
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And what about intimacy? About whispered silences, glasses that clinked, fingers that brushed against one another in a delicate conspiracy? It made us nothing. We are undone.

 

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So I close my eyes and count backwards, disappearing in a jaded orgasm of a time that used to be, consummating my desire in your memory.

 

 

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You emerge as if the world goes on, and it does- for you. Are you trapped between then and now? This skin is shedding, and with it the dates. There is only left for the taking- a silence to whisper, a glass to clink with mine, fingers to retrace the fading dates on our skins.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One Comment Add yours

  1. Our skin is our tapestry.

    Liked by 1 person

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