There are times when I, perhaps naively, view sexual intimacy as sacred. But then it is hard to reconcile how the same person who shared in this ritual with me only nine months ago could be so….coldly matter-of-fact with me only last month.

Dear reader, I am not without a practical side. That part of me understands. And the understanding brings with it little to no pain. But I am also one with romantic and maybe even spiritual side. So when I awoke this morning to the sight of the dull carpet drinking in the morning sunlight, I could not help but remember what happened in March. Was she the sunlight and I the carpet?

Why if it was so sacred have I already forgotten so much? There are only flashes—images, feelings. She walks in. We kiss. Then…blankness until…I kneel before her. Between her. As if in prayer. But what happened between the kiss and the prayer? Did we talk? Did I undress her? My left hand on her belly to steady her and…more blankness. Then the ecstasy. That thing that happens when we can transfer the energy of our love, lust and longing through our bodies. And then…blankness. Did we talk? Did we look longingly into one another’s eyes? Was I happy? Blankness. I remember something…that unspoken but mutual knowing that this was a transient thing. That the clock was ticking. I remember feeling at peace with the idea that we only got to have that moment; hoping that she could have more with…anyone.

Perhaps what makes me question myself, what makes me feel foolish is the idea that what I describe with so much care, what I frame as spiritual…maybe it really is just fucking. And maybe I imagine it as something more because I’m lonely or because I think too much or because I need to feel like it matters. Were I less lonely would I still view that moment as so special? Am I just full of shit?

I am crying but I’m not sure why. I don’t feel any sort of direct longing for her right now. In fact, right now I long for nothing. For no one. Would that I could simply taste these tears and understand them. Maybe I can think of the tears as born of mystery. Why not let this lonely imagination have that?

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