by St. James

The Lovers Recall

I

I remember –
that her skin
felt like the clouds,
and that it had the sateen finish
of whipped egg whites;
undressing her made me
hungry for that reason.

I remember –
the extra sheen
her skin would affect in those
moments; her body’s
natural cooling mechanism
tinged with my own.

I remember –
that she tasted like
marshmallow fluff flavoured with
orange blossom and
essence of lavender:
nectar of the gods.

Yes,
I remember her well.

II

Before we were flotsam
spun speckled suburbanites,
dancing in a darkened window,
drowning distaste with
jellied gins –
we kissed.
For hours.
For no reason.

Limitless hypotheses needed
testing, alchemical research,
physicists exploring
Electrical
Everythings.

I remember it well.

Kiss caught
capillaries of kiss
canoodling catastrophe, until
our lips, two withered, wilted slugs,
inverted, invented, spotted
dry rot in the beams and
froze.

Yes,

just as I remember
that night the jellied gins
tickled
the roofs of our mouths –

I remember him well.

Aftermath

I can still taste you
twenty-two hours on.

When I ascend the stairs
my motion wafts you up, celestially
to my nose, it’s in the creases
of my clothes,
still.

I am encased in our potion –
the perfume of a
reckless tryst –
I sizzle in it, unquestionably,
and when it is gone it shall be missed.

Even when the hours
muddy crisp recollection,
and marry it with
unmatched affection,
I shall keep it with me.
I shall detect it with the
bloodhound quick wit I had for my
security blanket.
I shall let it tickle my insides.
I shall take it to bed with me.
It shall be of some, little,

comfort.

St. James | @stjamesundays

St. James is a writer, actress and Buffy and Austen aficionado. She has a Sunday column @NEstablishment and can be found at @stjamesundays.