Having sex with your ex is a foreign deed. You find yourself in their living room, their kitchen, and their bedroom and everything has changed — despite the arrangements and furniture all being the same since you last visited.
You walk into the entrance of their home and everything feels so strange and unwelcoming. The hand towels have shifted, the lighting has changed, and the atmosphere you were once indulged by is cripplingly foreign to you.
You realize that this is no longer your safe haven and your second home.
You think about how this man has fucked and loved so many bodies after you in the very same bed you are sitting on and suddenly you feel the need to run from this place as far away as you can.
But the familiarity of all of this inexplicably pulls you deeper and deeper into its environment; a relentless vortex that refuses to let go.
When he’s inside you, you notice the same stains on his ceiling. The same clock still ticks by the same bedside table and the curtains remain unchanged. How many months has it been since these inanimate objects have you seen last?
An epiphany is reached eventually and the things you recognize and the man you once knew have changed.
He still has the same eyes and lips, but the way he stares into you and the words that come out of his lips are that of a stranger’s.
A part of you wants to simply cup his face with your hands and kiss the memories into his mouth; memories of a past life and the potential lives that have yet to be lived.
But the intentions were never the same; his primal desire does not equate to your need to be loved by this very same man again.
And while your heart thinks, “I still love you,” as you clutch onto his bed sheets, his has been made up and is thinking of ways to whisk you out of his door.