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Ghosts in the Bedroom

Ghosts in the Bedroom

A Lost Love

I lie face-up to feel the coolness of the room touch my skin; much as a lover’s hand might do. There’s a whisper of an air current that walks its fingertips of a breeze down my chest and across my nipple until it teases hairs on my manhood. The fingertips reach the tops of my thighs before the feeling dissipates.

There is a presence on my skin and then there isn’t; a sense memory that comes and goes.

The ghosts of our love inhabit the bedroom now. We both know it.

The twins, Time and Life, murdered our once vibrant physical love. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation failed. Traditional remedies of longer and deeper kissing, sensual kissing, lingering hugs, candles, flowers, and heartfelt sentiment, none of them worked. The physical love between us seeped out somehow and puddled on the floor.

A residue of romance remains. A reminder of an experience we once shared.

Each night I lie nude hoping you will touch me, spoon me, cuddle me; a single caress from you to intimate you still love the physical me, the present me, the man of me. Your touching isn't there anymore.

I remember your snuggling from years ago, when you sought my body’s heat. Tonight you turned up the dial on the electric blanket and I heard you sigh as it warmed you; the heat that once was me is replaced.

I remember rolling over and putting my arm around you to keep you warm. You’d let me spoon with you. Not today. My arms are too heavy, you say. I’m crushing you, you say.

I remember when we went to bed at the same time. We talked until we fell asleep. Tonight, every night, the computer’s mindless video games stimulate you and they replace me. It’s one o’clock before you join me in bed; I rise at four. Three hours of sleeping apart in the same bed.

The air current is my lover now. I expose my body to its soft caress while I sleep with the ghosts in the room. It’s not you but it used to be. That's as close as it gets.

And you're happy.

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