One night we read each other’s love letters. The ones from other people. We let it hurt and squirmed against each other. We played with how complicated it was and teased each other and laughed and blushed and cried.
We let the word “love” sit in our mouths until it bubbled out. We took turns freaking out. We rode our cycles of pain and fear and exhilaration until we were exhausted.
When we fucked we whispered how bad it was. We made up reasons why what we were doing was wrong. That box of love letters close enough to see us. All those memories and broken hearts watching our bodies entwine. We kissed and kissed until our lips were raw. We fucked until we were sore.
Panic came in odd times. Could we keep up the passion? Was it too much? Did we need to define it? My heart hurt from racing too long.
We slept in bouts, waking each other up in the middle of the night, fingers over mouths as we devoured each other. Sweat slick sheets as we came and came for each other.
In the morning we were silent. Coffee and red eyes, like a love hangover. We both worried we had gone too far and said too much. We cried at the train station and forgave each other everything. We owned it all. We held each other and waited for the next train, the next train, inseparable on a bench, prolonging the inevitable.