I remember once devilishly thinking how I want to do to you what salt does to snails. To put it on your open skin and watch you dissolve in it, painfully. But I found no gain in stretched bitterness. So I chose to float in one of your afternoons, with nothing but coffee between us. I did not want to catch up. Or to try and love you again. Perhaps it is the traces of the last flickering flames I wanted to see. But mostly to sit there and stare at you, who once tortured me threateningly with love.
You sat on the other side of my coffee. And I looked at you. And I saw your lips. Such skinny strips of lips. How do they manage to mouth the heavy words of the world? They looked as if they weren’t there, starting just where they were ending. Deflated black lips. Charred by many years of cigarette smoking. Had you had them all this time? I could not remember them. I could not remember how they felt like when they kissed me. Four years of passion fed from those lips whose taste and feel I cannot remember.
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