Do You Remember?

Do you remember me?

Sitting on the sidewalk next to my house, waiting with a bouquet of flowers in your hands. Freshly picked, you made sure of that.

Do you remember running home in the rain and having that first, all-consuming and disgustingly passionate kiss under the lamppost? We were so wet, we both got sick and held hands and swapped germs for a week and a half.

Do you remember telling me you love me? It was in room 503, in the Cavendish hotel, where we fucked for hours and hours afterwards, never even contemplating leaving the lush, plush confines of our confines.

Do you remember fucking?

Not making love, no, we never did that. Just wild, passionate, hot and sweaty carnal, deep fucking that wrecked my pussy for any other man that would come my way.

Do you remember loving me?

Please. Please tell me you do. Please tell me you can still feel like you did on that autumn evening when we whispered our undying trust to each other in front of our friends. Can you muster up that feeling?

Can you remember what we had?

Please. Find it in your heart to find me again. Muster up the strength to say the words I need to hear, before my heart dies of despair.

Remember me.

Love me.

Please.

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2 Comments

  1. Bad break up?

    Reply

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