Flash Fiction - The Break Up

I stare at the face that won't let me miss it, the lips that won't let me kiss it. We have arguments we're not fighting, laws and unspoken rules we're not abiding and words, phrases and sentences we're not verbalizing.

You're my reluctant gift. The dark tinted mirror gilded in gold; the savior dictator. And now, you're leaving me.

Let me whisper to your deaf ears, in hushed urgent tones; how your new lover can't give hypocorisms to your skin. She can't call the creases, can't provide an identity to your parts that were mine. These secrets are mine alone. Well, ours, but only because I chose to share them with you.

I know you think of me as beautiful - in a way that dead things are beautiful. That's okay. I'll take what I can get.

Even if you don't want to, you are allowed to remember me. You're allowed to go and reminisce on how my clothes were thrown haphazardly around your room and your floor. You're allowed to speak about me in terms of sexual conquests, categorizing me into condom preferences. You're allowed to fantasize about me. You're allowed to long for me.

Don't tell me that you can't just because you think you've changed; that you're different now. You're the same as the first day I saw you, met you, kissed you, fucked you and loved you. You are the same body I undressed. You are the same weight on top of me - the same writhing, grunting, moaning body over, under and inside me.

But this is this and we are what we are. This is what you want and this is all that I can give.