.

And we dipped the tip of our fingers in nostalgia. For, you settle in as easily as you let go.

Perhaps? No.

As if washing the skin would wash off the hurt!

...

I tried to smell stale cigarettes on another set of fingers and copy patterns of our lovemaking on a different bed. I would not reveal how futile it has all been.

I wish I could wash away the little specks of your desire, which have stuck to my skin despite the incessant scrubbing. And your kisses have been absorbed by the pores.

And this time I can't even string sentences to yank the misery out of my nauseating gut.