Bitter, the thought of staying while you sped away through the sky. Sweet, the feeling of your hands, soft as aphrodite’s, but graced with the strength that only a guitarist acquires.

Bitter, the feeling that I have corrupted my vision of you, one of innocence that is now irrevocably burned with passion. Sweet, the taste of your lips, the sensation with which I label such corruption.

No category is excluded, as I envision you, your form, remember the things we’ve talked about. All is meshed together, just like the words bitterandsweet. Can’t think of your eyes, without watching them close, feeling the brush of your lashes against my cheek, as I test the shape of your mouth, with the tip of my tongue. Can’t think of any words you’ve said without hearing you say, “I love you.” My thoughts have turned into incongruities.

But I accept them and open my mind to all. It is my way. It is not a bad thing. Don’t worry.

I figure, it was inevitable. I thought, as I looked at your face for what could have been hours, that I was either going to continue to regret the thought of kissing you for the rest of my life, or do it and regret the action. But I did it, and I regretted nothing. I felt only an instant magnification of our bond.

My memory of the next nights are the ones that hurt my mind as I close my eyes and sustain them, playing them, sensational movies, literally… in them, my chest is bursting with desire, expanding, my mind washed with endorphins as I secretly imagined what could be. You trace my face with delicate fingers, and i must be giving you bruises as I squeeze, and embrace, working your body, like a sculpture of elastic clay. I realize though, as vividly as I recall your body with mine, I will open my eyes soon and return to my normal state of existence, and you will not be there—but I’m not ready for the wave of nausea and emptiness, so I continue, remembering the slithering pink snake in my mouth, the shape of every tooth in yours…

But it all must end. That sweetness, interrupted cruelly, by the bitter sense of solitude. I reach over in my bed, and squeeze my pillow, pretending it’s your warm body, taking two breaths to my one. No one though, knows this except for you. To all, I am a statue of resilience, and am unchanged. It’s my mask that I took off for you. It’s my way of proving I am strong, to myself. And I haven’t cried. Not in a long time, and not yet for you. I stay strong for others so they may not be engulfed in the tumult of my mind, dare they try and step inside—and for you, so you know, I won’t forget you, simply to avoid the feelings of emptiness.