Chocolate

If nothing else, you were quite the experience.

That first time we did it, in the smoky haze of someone else’s party, do you remember, you held my hand because I was nervous and you knew exactly what you were doing. We were drunk, and when it was over we shared a cigarette and some chocolate and you never quite let go of my hand.

The adolescent dream girl brought to life; you danced like you were getting paid and every smile was for me.

I was young, you were my first, and so I loved every little weird thing about you. The way you laughed because everything was always okay in your world. The way you’d write your name on random objects, claiming ownership.

Memories like polaroids – you giving me a mint in a café by means of a kiss, you pulling the duvet over your head and telling me lovingly to eff off… The last memory of all, the sight of you walking away.

Years roll by, and it seems like I never leave this room. I pass the time by looking at your picture and grabbing fistfuls of linen, breathing you in.

I light the occasional cigarette and gorge on sweet things, but it’s empty pleasure and if I ever get the urge to phone you, I stop myself because it’s late, late. So I throw away your pictures and try my best to forget you, until all that’s left is a name written on a mirror in lipstick.