Knowing better is not always knowing best. I have not taken more lovers than they have taken needles into their arms. Not more than strands of hair down foreign drains, than unfamiliar beds slept in (and emptied sometimes before sunrise). A hotel room - do I recall? You called me just so that we could feel our bare bellies against one anothers in a city that we had not touched eachother in before. Mascarpone and shrimp; I recall telling myself I would never write a line about that or you because perhaps that was all you had ever wanted.

And a simple kiss? While early adulthood removes the simplicity - Could I count the mouths that I have kissed? If lined up in a room, how many would I dispute? Yours at the very least.

And names - I do not know all of their names. There was M, M, W, J, A, B, G, S, R, T, D, G?, A. Does it spell anything if the first letter of their names is rearranged?

And then the close calls, the almost permission granted, but at the last minute, I snapped shut like I had wanted to for all of them. To retain some sense of myself by hoarding it for me. It's not that I have not willingly enjoyed it, it's just that I have not been adequately refilled with temporary wholeness for each time (but not as many times as needles that have been shoved into their arms - do you understand? It was my hair down foreign drains, and despite my best efforts I could not keep track of them all)

My lights are on
I have no blinds
The neighbors can look in
but I can not see any of them.

(but the end has been forming for a while now, and once the envelope is sealed the contents inside will stay put. It is what I have hoped, anyhow.)