Here I go again, pulling myself back to what once was. Thinking of your flawless skin, your one dimpled little cheek and your striking black eyes. How do I even begin learning how to let go?

Our relationship, still roams in my mind. I’ve learnt how to bury it, deep within the back of my mind and in the deepest dungeons of my heart. Locked away, it remains. Today, I found myself rummaging for our love, in the deepest parts of my soul. I found it, buried and covered with dust like an old abandoned buried treasure.

The first memory that comes to my mind as I let myself succumb to our love, once again, is of you. This sudden picture runs in my mind, as you smile and whisper my name. Nobody has ever called me the way you did, “Bobo”. At first I didn’t like the name, but I ended up warming up to it, as it was your favourite way to address me.

I think of how you screamed my name, when I gave you pleasure. I thrived in making you feel pleasure. I always wanted to push you into feeling things you’ve never felt before. The look in your eyes, right before you climaxed. The way the hair on your arms stood up, you’d lose reality with the world. It’d be like you let yourself go free and indulge yourself in only releasing an orgasm. The way your legs would fly up at the very last minute, as you released.

“Bobo,” you’d whisper.

I’d look at you, “What?” I’d ask.

You’d never answer me, and I often wondered why you called my name, but never actually said what you wanted to say. It is only now that I realise that you couldn’t have told me what you wanted, because in that moment of making love, I gave you happiness that no words can ever describe.

I feel like I’m trapped in your love, I feel like there are heavy chains pulling me back whenever I move forward.

“I don’t want to share you,” you’d say, crying, whenever you found out about my infidelities.

I’d feel bad, apologise till you warmed up to me and made me yours again.

Maybe that’s why you left and did what you did, how do I even begin to explain how you made me feel?

Your bulging stomach was visible, it couldn’t be mine, science has proved it. I am a woman, so are you, our long hours of pleasure and passion could’ve never exposed your womb to a foetus.

I couldn’t talk to anyone about how I felt, my pride wouldn’t let me. I brushed it off, and pretended like it didn’t hurt. What a mistake that was. I understand that time heals all wounds, but some take longer than others.

Thinking about you again feels like I’m roughly removing a band aid from a sore and fresh wound. I’m supposed to act tough; I can’t show weakness. I can’t even see you, or talk to you, I’ve even lost your scent. And I can’t even remember the feel of your touch on my skin. I can’t remember the warmth of your lips on mine, I’ve forgotten the way your tongue moved in and around my mouth, and mostly, your scream and the tight hold on me, and the way your legs shook, right before you came and your legs gave up.

It’s time to put the box back where it belongs. Slowly I close the door which holds our love and memories, and I hope this is the last time I’ll ever go rummaging through it. I think I know that’s a lie, because honestly. I can’t even think of how to let go.


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