I take my morning coffee with an extra shot of Bourbon, browsing through the pictures he sends me from Berlin: Potsdamer Platz after dark, a granite wall in the Tiergarten, the roof inside the Galeries Lafayette. Always architectural and sterile, void of people or movement.
When I leave the house I dress in florals
and shades of white, his absence is echoing along the fragile coastline
where I walk. I pass by people that nod as if they knew me, men with
wives and girlfriends stare frightenedly through the transparency of my
dress as if in to an eclipse. It's almost too easy.
Back home I
close the blinds and shut the door behind me, our bed is cooler than
normal and under the covers my fingers are finding their way to wherever
he likes to touch me. I close my eyes and it's darker than a dream,
nothing breaks the silence but the subtle sensation of skin against
fabric and ripples of thundering water in the far away distance.