I was unpacking today. I removed the sex candle from my suitcase. The scent triggered your memory. Not that you’re ever very far from the top of my mind.

I am a about to start scrapbooking, but I’m apprehensive about looking at pictures of you. I think it’ll make me cry. Should I, to quote T.S. Elliot, “after tea and cakes and ices, have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?” (Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, 1915).

How’s this for a dramatic paragraph (see below)?

It’s hard to see the mouth I’ve heard moan my name, the face I’ve seen hovering just above mine, captured and held still by a photograph. You can’t see my private pain. I can’t see yours either. We don’t take pictures of that. But I’m guessing they’re alike in the sense that they’re both human and sad.

And then there’s your fucking irresistible, kissable mouth.