There it is. That is my story.
Do I love you, your eyes ask. You need only to feel my lips again to have your answer.
But my love is lustful and attaches itself to whatever it will. If you should ever leave this bed, my love will not go with you.
And when I leave this bed, and confront a forgotten world, if the scent of a flower should happen to reach me, I will linger for as long as the moment demands. Or if I should pass a beautiful woman on the street, my pace will slow, my attention adjust accordingly. Or if I should ever be with you again, should I ever mistake your hand for my own again, should I ever feel you trembling beneath me again, know that my love is yours once more, and that we will exist in another moment completely our own.