The sun barely rose on that day I let go. I had, in my misery, banished myself from anything that reminded me of you. Gone out to the old field for solitude. A small house between two tufts of trees sat still and alone. The grey light of the fog peeked meagerly through drawn curtains. As soon as my waking mind became conscious I turned in my bed, alerted only by the sound of  wind chimes clanging and wind howling cold outside my door.

The small spark of life that had once drawn me out from the covers has grown frail and dim in the aftermath of us. No life springs in me, no joy. I lay here in this mess of sheets. The same ones that only a week ago we tangled with our bodies in a reckless and repeated indulgence of hot flesh.

Flashes still return to me. These silent drab walls were alive and listening then, when the stale air was ripe with moaning and the smell of bodily fluids. Oh how we fit together. As if I was the thick curved skeleton key to your soul's vault, the warm, wet lock below you. And when I entered I would unlock your most deeply held secrets. We brought them out and counted each one, then strung them here and there about the rooms. Oh the emotion and passions, raw unfiltered releases that we conjured among these walls.

Our time was not careful time, our time seemed not as time at all. Then alas, when the room was not an echo chamber for your cries, it was host to our bodies, lying motionless there, unable to speak for it. The strange shatter of what we had made each other's bodies do. Never before have I vibrated outward from within my entire being. Never before had you shook the way you did while taking all passion into the depths of your womanhood.

But now, the sun is away. The wind blows the trees against the house and there is no other sound except the hum of the distant expressway. My ears ring with the silence.

I pull the covers back over my head in an attempt to find shelter from the pain and responsibility outside my door. My foot will not even touch the cold wooden floor, for fear that the creaking of old wooden boards would be the apparition of you as you walked nakedly, on tip toes across my room. My mind is tortured by the thoughts I have. The things I would whisper into your ear in the choicest of moments. The look on your face as you let your body give way to the convulsing throes of climax. The scenes are burned into my psyche and I crave their oddity and wonder. Cleanse me of this imprint though I want to revel there. Cleanse me of my own desire.

Even now I cannot escape the internal strife. The most intense pleasure has given way to the most solemn low. Oh honest and true love, without the dark shadow of my lust, where are you? To be so alone that you are not even with yourself. Now that is to be alone.

So leave me to lie here. Let me wait for the wind to stop and the rays to again penetrate my window and in turn, my soul. Let me release myself of this wallowing weight of emotion and breathe deep strong breath again. If these walls could talk they surely would tell me of my failures, even if they held secretly to themselves the images and sounds of our bodies uniting. But that now has passed.

She is gone from here. Leaving tomorrow to live as humans are intended. Far from here. It is back to quiet now, back to solitude. My mind is envious of the space. Empty rooms like an empty soul. This regret is half hearted in selfishness. Still I cannot move. Though I wonder, if any, what part of yourself did you leave behind here this time?