I remember her desire, her passion, the taste of her neck. She touched me because she could. She touched me because she knew, somehow, that I ached for her just as she ached for me. Sex danced on our tongues. A game, a joke we shared in deadly earnest. There were times when we were so caught in our heat that we could barely reach a safe place to break ourselves on one another.

The abandon was terrifying, and I craved it with every last hair and cell. It was reckless and raucous and somehow sophisticated and real. Desire awakened desire, and the two fed like predators. She knew what she wanted. At times I could think of nothing but the scent of her skin. Nothing else mattered.

Sometimes, I have difficulty believing it happened. Sometimes I simply cannot accept that I responded as I did. Then I remember that she felt the same things for me. It was an inspired madness. It was unsafe and unknown. It was volatile. Dangerous. It woke every aspect of myself that I had denied existed and have since denied existed.

It ended, and I wonder sometimes how much of me ended with it.