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He spent a number of years studying the way my skirt would edge up my thighs as I sat cross legged, across from him.
  
Pondering, the notion that I may just have been created from his rib, and when I said to him, I love the way you fuck me; I meant that I loved you, but he never quite pondered the literal meaning of such words as he was wedged deep inside me.    
   
I was entirely unaware of the way in which he’d become hungry at the time, whilst curiosity killed the cat, and never did we engage in enough deep & meaningful dialogues about life, the universe and the way shooting stars fall.  
   
It was skin on skin raw moments that bound us in the twilight as I whispered this, that and the other to his oceanic blues, and it became apparent that we both wanted the same thing but neither of us explicitly said so.    
   
His hand, fit perfectly in mine as I rested upon his shoulder, and I found comfort in the silence that oft existed between us, and the way our bodies merged was like art.    
   
We sure knew how to fuck but I was too young to know what love was, and much too naive to know what a man meant when he mentioned others not knowing how to keep their hands off of me.  
   
Penned, in a cute valentines card which melted my heart, and Strehlow himself would’ve turned in his grave at the tears that flowed that day.  
   
I was his, for a short period of time and the memory of him draws tears to my eyes, even after all these years.    
   
And now, all I can do is follow him like a lost puppy trying to find my way home as he doesn’t want to break bread with me.