#theyre kind of spontaneous

My Very Own Marley

It’s incredible how completely a girl can permeate a place. Their presence pervading throughout a volume, contained within the four walls of the room but pushing that containment to its absolute limit. After I’ve had you, it’s hard to go back to a time when I haven’t.

It’s the smells of the sheets, slightly enhanced by the way you gushed all over them. The mark on the headboard where your hands were tied, the light scratch where your nail seared across it. The phantom of your perfume, hiding in the air, waiting in ambush. 

The most surprising reminders are the ones heavily associated with myself. The shirt I was wearing, perhaps, or the cologne I’d sprayed earlier that night. The feel of the stubble on my chin, a few days old, repeated a week later, and instantly placing me back in that night. A dozen minor time machines, each one waiting to spring their trap and drag me back there. 

They’re replaced in time, as a thousand mundane memories overwrite the association created in that one intense evening, but each time they’re refreshed they linger a little longer. You’re a spectre in my room, waiting for me to shiver as you pass through me.