INHALING THE WEEKEND

The scent of the weekend is on me. The air, the ocean, the smell of us pushing ourselves into each other, his chest against my face, his breath swirling with mine – our mouths wide open, pressed together, greedy for oxygen – as though we need it to keep fucking. This centrifuge of combined bliss, the brain tastes it at that moment, I try to hold on to it to reopen it later like some pate you hide in the back of the fridge. But it’s locked there in your subconscious, stubbornly waiting until the day it can spill itself all over that same experience when it happens again that exact same way; the memory attaching itself to that new same moment, multiplying it, amplifying it, the familiarity making it oddly more dizzying.

I am doused in him now, it’s lulling me to sleep – but I will wake and shower, and watch it puddle around my feet. There’s no holding on to this morning, this weekend, the taste of myself on his chin. It will all be usurped by Monday morning coffee, the smell of Tide, the scent of my showered skin. Soon, though, my body will ripen with want as I try to recall how the room filled with us as he pulled himself from inside me, or the essence of his breath as he lay sleeping and spent pressed against my neck. I’ll try my best to remember as I walk down the street, or drive around in my car, or maybe I’ll just wait until I’m naked in bed, nose pressed against unwashed sheets.