Persistence of the senses
Here am I, left to myself in the dark room. It is quiet, everything is still. There are no sensual movements on the bed anymore, or the sheets getting tangled between our bodies; no quick shines of the night lights on his lusty eyes, no more whispers and moans, or the sounds of the mattress springs in their forced oscillations, of kisses and grunts, and of other noises that have no name. The taste of his skin, of his mouth, of him, they have all faded, and now only an unrecognizable, slight bitterness remains on my tongue. The room is cold, the sheets lie cold and motionless, not caressing my body, not hot over my thighs, not groping my ass, not twisting my nipples, not touching every inch of me and making my nerves scream, not his weight making me feel alive and his. Only his faint scent, mixed with the strong and unmistakable smell of sex is left, as he is out in the night, probably not even thinking about me.