Your kisses lingered like morning mist: cool, dispassionate. They evaporated long before sunlight warmed my skin. At last.

You liked me on your arm. People threw pleasant smiles. I always knew when to leave, when our peculiar conceit grew more wearing than your hollow loneliness.

You didn’t draw your curtains, strutting nude around your flat, demanding people worship your body through the glass. Or, at your whim, look away. You left no way to be right.

You fucked as you always danced. All in. Hot, frantic, rhythmic: winning all the badges, shrilling with ecstasy in your unwholesome pursuit of completeness.