No matter how hard I try

Sometimes when I’ve completely forgotten and my life is at peace, a song will come on and I am flooded with the most persistent memory. Of post coital bliss on a hotel bed at The Standard, Casamigos tequila still warm in my belly.

We are listening to my playlist and he knows all the words. He runs a finger down my spine, gingerly, but with the confidence of a sensual expert. I look up at him, and with few words, we are once again in the throes.

It’s such a hot memory but it’s the intuition that always captures me. We touched one another like we’d known each other’s bodies for ages. There was no awkwardness. It played out as though choreographed and rehearsed. And yet completely novel and surprising.

If the 🦄 captivated my mind and Samy my body then The Israeli captured my soul.

I banished him from fear. If I could take anything back, it would be the last night. I don’t miss the 🦄, a man I spent a lot of time on. I don’t miss Samy because we are friends.  But the Israeli, dear God, he found places within me to hide traces of his touch, physical and otherwise.

A hot summer in NYC awaits me. And I’ll meet a lot of men. But not one of them will have his shiny black tendrils. Or his smile. Or his voice as he sings me to sleep with a song by Dylan.

How do you long for someone who seeps deeper and deeper into the crevasse between memory and tortuous fantasy?

One of the loves of my life and I’ll never see him again. And not even the heat of summer can sear his memory away.

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