I walk over the cool meadow, the dewy blades of grass sliding between my naked toes, the pleasant dampness wetting my soles. You lie in the sun as you always do, patiently waiting for me, gaze fixed to the sky. The grass beside you is soft and warm, the condensed moisture dried from the warm morning sun.

I lie down next to you, silent for a while, irrationally hoping I'll hear your voice. Instead, it's the singing of the birds, the humming of the bees and the rustling of the leaves in the wind I can hear filling my ears while my mind adds the illusion of your voice I haven't heard in years. Wordlessly, you just stare into infinity.

"Hey, I'm... back," I tentatively try. I simply can't get used to you not replying, not hearing the voice I miss so much. "How I wish you could just visit me for a change," I sigh, close to my tears. My sigh is filled with a blunt, frustrated, sober reality. You don't even flinch; just listen to my direct accusation as you always do. "But that's obviously not gonna happen."

You were always better than me with handling guilt. It just doesn't seem to hit any interest whatsoever in you. If I think of all the fights that I started over your indifference, mainly because I envied you for being so laid-back but was too proud to admit it. Even now, I just recently accepted that it isn't my fault you stopped talking to me, and not yours either—that it is no one's fault, in fact, and can never be changed.

At least, you seem not to mind me not giving up on talking to you and you give me the impression that you're listening. You always did. That's why I fell for you in the first place. This and how your lips curl when you smile, this vibrating of your nose's alas when you laugh, the soothing sound of your voice, that burn scar on your left forearm that you keep hidden under your wristwatch. A tear appears in my eye as my mind gets flooded with all these memories.

In vain, I try to shoo them away. "See? All those years and I'm still not over you."

I unceremoniously sniff and wrinkle my nose. Helps me control my emotions. You know this ritual from when we were still together. Used to make fun of it—and despite the fact that I hated you for this, it always helped. "Oh, how I wish you would make fun of me like that again."

You brush that comment off with that typical silence of yours that you've adopted over the years. Still no reaction from you. I briefly consider hitting you but I would only hurt myself more than you—both my knuckles and my heart.

I force a smile as I gulp a renewed surge of tears down. I actually feel the lump slowly descending to my stomach like a too large, too hot sip of too thick dark chocolate: bittersweet and painful, leaving a trail of seared tissue.

As the word 'burn' remains in my thoughts, I lightly chuckle through the corset my longing for your closeness keeps wrapping more tightly around my chest. It comes with the cherished memory of how we took each other's anal cherry.

The awkwardness and discomfort of the taken privacy when you gave me instructions through the locked toilet door because I was too clumsy and giddy to use the enema properly—and too embarrassed. I giggle at the thought of this episode you kept mentioning whenever I was about to burst in one of my nervous breakdowns on you. It worked, kept reminding me of how I was making a mountain out of a molehill—except that one fateful day.

I brush that last thought away as I prefer to reminisce in the romantic rose-colored nostalgia of days long gone.

***

We took our time that afternoon. Exploring as if freshly in love. Hands roaming, fingers brushing, gentle blows, tongues dancing and flicking the spots only we knew to trigger with each other. Every crevice was mapped in our minds anew, our sexes were re-discovered with strokes, nibbles, kisses, lips engulfing, fingers probing until your tongue found my puckered star, sending an electrifying sensation all the way up my spine, raising my nape hair, admonishing me we wanted to turn our first anal experience into the precious memory it is today.

I purred as I didn't feel your touch anymore, rocked my hips to no avail, trying to find your tongue again until I opened my eyes, only to find your mischievous Cheshire grin, aware of the power you were having over me and my release. Encouraged by the sultry sparkle in your gaze, I felt challenged to retort the pleasure. We both adjusted our positions so we could lather each other's most intimate parts with kisses and the spit that came salivating from our mouths, mingling with our natural lubricants all the while our restless fingers circled around the rim of each other's backdoor.

Just a little more pressure and our fingers would sink in. In prospect of the blissful invasion, we turned it into a game of who would desecrate the other's forbidden shrine first, yet wanted to keep each other edging for as long as possible, prolonging the sweet anticipating torture.

You were first to gasp as my fingertip passed the rim and your sphincter willingly gave way to the intrusion. Your cave practically sucked my finger in. The rocking of your hips in the quest of burying my finger deeper told me you were forgetting that you were not the only one who was to receive this utmost intense pleasure. As I withdrew my finger, your disappointment didn't linger as you took the hint and realized you had neglected me—even if it was for just a few seconds.

You returned the teasing you had been receiving just moments before. A gentle caress over my pucker, an unfamiliar sensation darting into my forbidden entrance. I could feel your lust and the battle you were fighting against your raging desire to impale me on your fingers and forcefully claim my butt with them, regardless of my comfort. I was grateful for you putting my well-being over your lust.

Your lips against my sex together with your tongue licking my most sensitive nerve endings finally allowed me to relax and accept the intrusion until your penetration reached as far as your finger could. My body shivered at the faintest bending of your digit. My moans were only an expression of frustration over your finger not being able to scratch the itch burning deep within me. I pulled your head to my crotch, rocking my hips, riding your face until you had a mess of my lust and your spit plastered over your grin.

Oh, that evil smirk that knew exactly you had stopped pleasing me right at the edge. From that look in your eyes, I read you demanded I return the pleasure to you—our careful preparation for the real thing which I needed constantly reminding myself of so I didn't just make you scream in joy and thus put an immediate end to our meticulous build-up.

Frustrated, I reluctantly, yet dutifully pushed you off me. You landed on your back and, legs splayed, presented your genitals to me like a treasured prize—my prize to devour and savor while edging you as cruelly as you had me.

I lashed my tongue over your most tender areas, your most sensitive spots, all the while letting my index explore the now drenched star of your anus and how it reacted depending on where my tongue landed. A contraction if I licked you here, a relaxation if my free hand touched you there, an accepting dilatation as my finger pushed in all the while my tongue lapped the nectar that came oozing from you. Your voice spurred me on, soon became a garbled mess, letting me know how close you were.

An impatient squirm accompanied your yammering as I stopped pleasing you when I felt your hands on the back of my head, pressing me against the mess I was making of your crotch.

“Uh-uh,” I teasingly hummed against you, letting you understand you were at my mercy and not in charge of your pleasure.

I kept you on the very brink until your begging turned to pleading, pleading to whining, whining to discontented moaning, soon to be replaced by a gasp of anticipation as I fished our newest toy out of the bedside table drawer: the strapless strap-on that was designed for simultaneous penetration and mutual pegging.

The copious layer of lube was swiftly applied to the crooked end that was to penetrate me and grip my rectum's walls such that I could slide the other end in and out of your orifice while having mine filled.

I winced at the unfamiliar intruder poking against my brown star, almost desperate and afraid our foreplay had been futile, the girth too wide. Then, suddenly, the tightness relaxed and the bulbous head deliciously stretched me out and slid in far deeper than your finger had, finally able to reach the spot so far in my body that craved stimulation.

Your harrumph prodded me to remember you fully expected me to share the pleasure of our newest toy and would not accept me inaugurating it without you. Having been caught red-handed, I blushed and pressed my lips together in a bashful chuckle. I apologetically avoided your gaze as I coated your end of the strapless with the slippery oil.

Before I was able to position myself, you pulled me close and made my lips land on yours. You reassured me by reminding me you would have lost yourself in the moment and forgotten about me just the same. My heart jumped at the realization once more of how understanding you were for all my little shortcomings.

As I positioned myself, you looked me in the eye, your own eyes glistening with anticipation and eagerness, yet afraid of getting your forbidden place filled. I could see in your eyes the pain you were trying not only to endure but to hide too as the pressure against your sphincter grew. Although you kept nodding approvingly and saying—your voice giving away your discomfort—you wanted it, I felt tears swell in my eyes from just knowing how much agony I was making you go through.

And then, sweet release as your tightness gave way to the intrusion and a sudden flash of relief in your gaze as your pupils went hiding behind your eyelids and your mouth fell open in a moan expressing the fulfillment of a desire long-nourished.

Your hand sought out my copiously drooling sex, cupped it, stroked it, caressed it while I reached between our intertwined legs, looking to coat my finger with your lubricant to touch your intimate parts as well. We were both close. We both knew our first mutual pegging would not last long if we kept pummeling each other like that, for far too excited we both were of these newfound sensations.

Our eyes locked the moment your hands grabbed my buttocks and your nails sunk into my flesh. I had my eyes already half-closed, anticipating my release as I leaned back a little further to invade your cave with the lethal blow. At last, the fire of a thousand suns burning deep in my core sparked a deluge of my essence in unison with your explosion.

In different rhythms, our spasms sprayed each other as we desperately, at a complete loss for coherent words, tried to garble each other's names.

Sticky with an unidentifiable mixture of sweat and liquefied lust, I collapsed on your chest, still jerking occasionally while you too were haunted by the sporadic squirms of our shared afterglow.

***

Cheeks flushed, I get up again. Despite the arousal from the cherished memory so vividly burned into my mind and the smile that spans both my ears, I hardly manage to suppress my tears at your stubborn silence.

Your gaze is incessantly locked to the clouds. As far as I can tell, you didn't even blink; as if all these memories don't mean anything to you.

“If it means so little to you, why do you keep haunting me every night?”

The rhetorical question—more an open allegation, actually, regardless of your indifference—passes by you without effect. Just as I think, against my better judgment, that you'll raise your voice, I realize it's just the wind once more. It always is.

I chuckle at my own silliness as a tear finally wins over my ridiculous determination not to cry this time—a battle I lose every day anew while asking myself why I keep doing this instead of just moving on. It would be so easy—falling for someone new.

Yet I know no one will ever be able to reproduce what you used to do to me. I chuckle again. This time, however, I'm able to suppress bursting into tears uncontrollably as I often do by letting out an obnoxious sigh.

I stay there, not moving, unsure if I should just turn around—like all of them, you know this ritual too well—until I step closer to you, brush away the moss that keeps trying to grow over you, run my fingers over the engraved epitaph. Finally, I kiss the headstone.

“I just miss you so much.”