The place we had sex last, was the same place we had sex first. The years between are filled with gravity. The symmetry of the two moments is superimposed in my mind. The same but different. The first time was blissful, unmarked by truths. The last, was pensive, broken by a thousand cuts.
Both times, we played music from a playlist we made together. A playlist you described as ‘one for the ages’. The first time, it only had a few songs, including one from your own album, ironically titled The Truth. After the first time, on the last day of February in a leap year, you added to it, Nothing Without Love. I added Throw Your Arms Around Me.
There was love the first time, maybe there was even love before then. We did it on the dirty carpet and the cheap bedspread. The last time, I leant forward to take pressure off your crippled knee. You were so hard for my softness, it almost broke us. Afterwards, we lay together, your face in mine. You were gentler than usual that day.
When dressed, through a window I took a photograph of a building in which you lived with a woman. You frowned and I reminded you there were testaments of us more vivid than a photograph from a hotel room. The first time, all seemed possible, ‘You and me babe, how about it?’ The last time, all I could hear was a national guitar playing us out.