The day fills up with questions. I rewind and replay conversations. Weigh relationships in the palm of my hand; test for firmness, prod the tender parts. I make a tally. Change my mind. Circle, repeat and adjust. Memories become clearer as they turn into stories, though they stray further from the truth. Everything we believe is fiction, a lie, distorted, uncertain, and unclear. Everything but the beat of a heart, the beat that I can hear if I lay my face on your chest. This beat, and then this one. I can’t say more, I can only chase your pulse.
Written in a similar spirit to The Sound of One Hand Clapping, in Hurts So Good: Unrestrained Erotica