When his bed smelled like sex, I sunk in. The mattress drowned me in its wave-like bedsheets, and I died with pleasure. I watch as the roof falls on me, I watch in wonderment. He sighs happily, one strong forearm almost strangling my neck. I kiss his temple (my favorite place to kiss, ever) and outside somewhere, a cloud breaks its silence.
We used to swim in the rain, we swam to each other everywhere. Then I kissed his eyelid.
He unknowingly yet lovingly played with her earrings that were in fact a present from another man. He was unaware of the things she collected, probably because she herself was quite unaware of the sentiment that should entail with such an act. There was none because she had none. When once in a blue moon a thought occurred to her, she frantically called a bunch of numbers, either reclaiming but mostly returning leftover things. Sometimes it got to the point that her apartment didn't smell like hers anymore. That's when she would clean ferociously. Bedsheets, blankets, sweatshirts, underwear were all thrown in the washing machine. The vacuum cleaner came out. The dishes were lemon-scrubbed, the carpet-less floors were mopped. The bathroom was sanitized and the curtains went behind their hooks to let the sun in.