Dear Lindsey

Your kiss changed when I finally lay beneath you on that bed. It became less urgent. Like you had all the time in the world even though I knew that was a lie (a breast was exposed and a nipple in your mouth before I could even close the hotel room door behind us). I wondered, curious why you'd slowed down. I was stupid enough to be pleased, to think that maybe you wanted to make tonight special for me, that it wasn't just a quick needy fuck for the road. And you did want to make it special, just for a reason I had ignored as a possibility - because it wouldn't happen, couldn't, not for us. It was never over.

My fingers wound in your hair and tugged as you kissed your way down my throat, and I could feel your smile against my flushed skin. Sometimes I wonder if I have some kind of sixth sense for you, if I can anticipate an expression on your lined but oh so beloved face before it even arrives. I like to think so. I like to own something of you, expect things of you, that no one else can. I know you better, you see, better than all of them. Even her.

There were times in the past when I know we made love but I can't remember anything beyond the feeling - the relief, the anger, the hunger. There were nights of which I can't remember anything at all. I try to write these memories down now not so I can be maudlin, reliving them and cursing fate. You know me better than that. I write so I can remember everything and keep living. The thought of not being able to recall the way you looked at me last night, the softness and love in your eyes as I caressed your cheek, as I told you that you needed to shave like I had the right to, like I was your wife... That scares me, Lindsey. I see hints of that look sometimes out of bed but it's rare now. So rare. Will you ever look at me like that again or was that it?

I should have known something was wrong when you hesitated. I know you love me so why didn't you say it back right away? It seems obvious now. Honey, it would hurt even more if you had refused me those words. I think you understood that, thank god. You spoke those words across my breasts, whispered them into my stomach, told me them with every touch of your fingers to mine. You looked me in the eyes and said 'I love you'. I believed you. I still do.

I'm not sure if you removed your jeans or if I had that honor but I treasure the pride and adoration in your face that I saw as I ran my trembling fingers along your thighs, as I wrapped a possesive hand around your cock. I used to think that one day the excitement would be gone, that we just wouldn't feel any need or desire. I was so wrong. At one point last night we lay there naked, my fingertips tracing down your spine and your warm mouth on my breast, and I really don't remember the last time I felt as 'home' as I did at that moment. I hate that almost as much as I love it.

You made love to me like you meant it (you always have, even when you hated me) and I screamed your name when I came (I always have, even if only in my mind). Your body was made for me and my heart was made for you and that's that. I closed my eyes afterwards, cradling your head to my chest, and I didn't think. I just allowed myself to feel. Everything.

It was only when you pressed a soft kiss to my cheek, and I saw the pain and regret in your eyes, that I realized that you were saying goodbye. You once (and again and again and again - you've never stopped) told me to love you. It was almost like you assumed I had a choice. I don't.

Love Steph

DNicole BarkerDComment