All that is left is
the impression in a pillow next to mine where her head never lay, only in my
imagination, with me above, pressing down, watching her face get that look she
only gest when on the verge of it, the slow motion rapidly speeding up amid the
groans (some of which are mine and some still are) as I try to replicate what I
managed once as real, alone, stroke by stroke, the impression the pillow going
deeper as I do, all that is left is what I imagined once but never was, the indentation
left by my wishes for it to have been, pressing myself down, making her look
the way she does ever on the verge, after having expended so much energy to
stoke her up, to drag out of her those sounds only come with some much effort,
the in and out of it, stoking a fire within, pushing her down into that pill to
keep its impression long after any possibility of it becoming real, stroke by
stroke.
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