I miss that feeling. I miss her smell. I miss running around tired in the graveyard, the sweaty wrestling in the grass. I miss staring at how beautiful she was. I miss the tiny pierced nipples under the fishnet shirt. Franken-boobies. I miss thinking all the parts were interesting. I miss the taste of salt and metal. I miss the slow sweaty grind. I miss staring and not seeing a single flaw. I miss being so naive, thinking what she did and said was fascinating. I miss wanting to see more of the art. I miss not knowing what they were symptoms of. I miss those moments in the room before she lifted the mattress and pulled out the lighter and needle. Even then I stared fascinated, tried to find some way to justify it, wondered about the cotton. There was a period of time before I ran.
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