Date Stamped; Captures from a Careless Afternoon

Photos by Rohan More (@goat_horn_)

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.
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.
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.
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.


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.



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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