Whither the hours that fly?

It is raining cats and dogs outside. I woke up at the middle of the night and cannot go back to sleep, which is rare given my constant sleepiness. And I do not have alcohol’s assistance by my side because I am currently in a tattoo aftercare.

I think about Thomas and how our three-year relationship ended up. And it just dawned on me a few days ago that he was the only lover with whom I have gone to supermarkets. Of course we did many other things together: bathing, sleeping, cooking, studying, all together. We love reading, but it is strange that we never read together. We tried at least, but never succeeded in doing so. My language is broken. I took my two cats from his beloved female cats when the kittens were just a month old. And in his thesis’ acknowledgement, Thomas referred to me as “mon amour.”

“I have a terribly bad memory. What left is a moving collage that is sometimes played in my mind like a broken trailer of a bad film. Yet I believe ones are changing, in every second.” I told Toru when he asked me if I found that he had changed a lot since the day of yore. (The expression is far too much superfluous, yet I and Thomas love it, or else I think so).

“I think you are all the same, exactly the same as what I have been thinking about you all along. There is something about you that I find very endearing. Perhaps you are careless as always.” Toru said.

“That’s why I love you.” he continued.

My memories run wild and bring me to Wolf and Chris, whom, for me, are somehow dead. We have not talked for too long and I don’t know about their well-being, nor they know mine. Some of my former sex buddies did text to wish me happy birthday in July, to whom I have no need to talk or just keep contact details, nor I remember their birthdays. They are all dead in my world.

Sometimes it might hurt to think that the bodies that you used to hold very dear, for which you used to have burning desire, and on which you spent your fruitful youth are rotting somewhere else and vanish, like the hours you had been together.

I first had sex with a guy well in his late 40s when I was 19. I don’t tell many about this. I want to deny the fact, and to forget the story behind it. He once told me that he had a son about my age.  It does not matter anymore. Nothing matters, at the end of the day.

And I come to miss Dylan. We loved when he was in his 12th grade and now he is going to do a master’s. We barely talk once or twice a year when he comes back home for summer holidays. We would plan a rendez-vous that never occurred.

“Are you ill?” asked Daniel.

“No.” I replied. “I will show you something.” Then I unfastened the handkerchief I had put on my neck and rolled up my sleeves to show him my two new tattoos: one fiddlehead and one lambda in a triangle.

He smiled, a beautiful, gentle and warm smile that he might have been cracking thousands of times in his life, and that is what I captured and tried to store in my mind so that years away from now perhaps it will be the only thing I remember about him.

A whiff of delicate fragrance from Patrick’s body lingers in my nose… (That was last Thursday.)

My language is broken, so are more my memories. It is still raining hard and it is nearly four in the morning.

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