She loved the way his hair used to entangle
her fingers: and the smell of his hair, and the weight of his hair, and
the colour and touch of his skin,
and then it would begin, and then it would start: the soul and
the heart that wanted to become one with hers: with what
she had to offer: oh, it
was such a sin and such a pleasure and
such a win, and such a treasure.
Now she has only a bleak landscape of distant mirth: all
laughing at her broad, all
studying her, all treating her as nothing
but a specimen to be tagged: and the tag could easily
be one of sheer love, but it clearly isn’t that …
… and it hurts.