This is how it ends.

With my mouth full of you, I remember the day you first talked to me. Charming. Persuasive. Wanting. Resistance was futile. My body responded to you immediately. Now, with every movement of my head, I keep a countdown of how much longer you will pretend you’re not over it. How long it will take for it to be unbearable to be around me any longer.

This is how it ends.

Lying on my back, my legs wrapped around yours, watching you watching me. Your eyes are almost flat, our lovemaking now a task you have to complete as fast as possible. I wonder if you even see me anymore. You woke me up in the middle of the night after a fight, whispered a soft sorry for whatever we were fighting about, your hands already pulling at my waistband. Still choking on a sob, I turn to you silently and welcome you. My body already betraying my breaking heart. At least I get to feel you one more time.

This is how it ends.

Tangled sheets, breathless moans, movements orchestrated by bodies no longer requiring spoken instructions. Touch here, caress there, kiss this spot. The only thing we were ever good at, the connecting of our bodies. For too long we pretended this would be enough.

This is how it ends.

You, rolling off my skin even before the echo of the final moan has quietened. You, avoiding my eyes, as you dress. Every item of clothing meticulously chosen and worn. Watching you dress used to be foreplay. Now you wear your shoes, stand at the door for a long moment. I barely breathe. I lay in the bed, unmoving, imagining myself disappeared inside the heaviness of all that you’ve never said. I will myself to be somewhere else, a place I won’t have to watch you try to find words to express your indifference. Mercifully, you say nothing.

I hold my breath until I hear the click of the door. And drown.


Cover image source: Tulisan Murtad

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About Author

I am a writer. I was not blessed with much, but I was given this ardent love for writing that I just can't shake off. And anyone who tries to make me do that deserves a bruise on his/her neck. I write for a living, yes. But I also write to live.

2 Comments

  1. ‘I will myself to be somewhere else, a place I won’t have to watch you…’ that is certainly how it ends

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