Remembrance of a Song - Joseph Dimacchia

I knew it when she played that Leonard Cohen song, her legs dangling swiftly off the bed. I kissed her neck and saw deep scars on her temples. I licked them, slowly and needlessly, and she began to love me. There was a notion of obedience, of the most transient death giving forth a new essence. She loved me, and our marred skin began to heal in unity—our scars closing like sunflowers. She talked to me, and I possessed past versions of ourselves, when we sat on beds as teenagers and I snored all night. She looked at me, and I heard that song, blaring in my eardrums as I danced on her twitching thigh. We trembled all night bitterly, as if to ask time to move forward. We had little time in coming and many in living, and for that I thanked her. She was perfect grace, remedial euphoria. She told me she had to go, she’d be back in a few weeks. See you very soon, she said, letting me play the game. I knew it when she played that Leonard Cohen song, her legs dangling swiftly off the bed.