Not Love

Don't touch me. You mustn't touch me. Not anymore. I'd hurt myself, and I'd hurt you. The pain isn't in my belly; I like your caresses; I can feel my desire throbbing. Don't touch me. The pain is in my heart and brain. My heart beats, but my brain thinks faster, sending its impulses to my body. It wants to enjoy itself, but it can't. It can't without love. You can explain life, death, suffering, but not NON-LOVE. You don't know why. Suddenly, you no longer love, neither the other nor yourself. Or maybe you realize that you selfishly want to love yourself. To save yourself. From non-love. It falls on you. Its hands. Anyone else's hands are not like yours. The caresses are similar, the body's reaction is similar, the shivers of pleasure, but the heart no longer wants it, the brain no longer distances itself. Another man lies beside me. Another man is aroused by the sight of my body. Don't touch me. I don't want to enjoy only my body. I want my heart. I was so busy loving you, believing I loved you, that I wasn't noticing myself. I was dying to excite you, to get you high, to give you the fire of love. Shards of glass. Only shards of glass remain for a lost love. I cut myself on the glass of memories. They aren't positive, they hammer the brain, annihilating the heart. Cock, dick, member—how many ways are there to say man? How many companions have I had in life? Memories, regret, other faces, other smells, but you, you, always your scent on me. Inside. I've erased the numbers, the addresses, the letters, but the name remains burned into my heart. Don't touch me. A different world of sensations, different faces, same gestures, similar words to reach the peak of orgasm. But the sensations of the body remain suspended, isolated in the limbo of my brain. Too much thinking, too much reasoning. "Live life as it comes and enjoy it," I'm incapable of. I must always know where I am and why I am here. In every moment of love, my body must feel what the other feels. It must not enjoy itself, only my pussy and your cock must get wet. I must feel united, a fluid of pleasurable juices. Don't touch me. I must reject your caresses just as you cannot accept my love. I feel nothing but my desire to cry. I am a prisoner of the desire to enjoy and the fear of no longer being capable of it. I would like to write to you, call you to accept sex again, only your sex. But I won't. I see. I see my hands brushing your lock of hair. I feel their texture. I bring my fingers to my nose, I think I breathe your scent. I see my body shiver at your gaze. For the last time I wanted to feel you inside me. I see. Fantasy. I've won the fight with myself, with the inability to say no to you. Don't touch me. I don't even want myself anymore. I don't want my body. I suffer for your happiness. You're part of my dreams. From the first day I felt you.

"You can't love more than one person in your life." How long will these words stick in my mind? Lie of feelings, ambiguity of the body. I told you of my rejection and your cock rose under the fly of your pants. I could smell its acrid scent. A hand of mine to caress you. I wanted. Don't touch me. Don't touch my heart again. Where was your wife while you slept at my place? Where were your thoughts while we made love? We didn't need fantasies. We made them come true. Don't touch me. I write for catharsis. To be right for myself. Don't touch me. I no longer want my dependence on you. I'm soaked in pleasure just thinking about you. I write but my belly gets wet on its own, thinking about you, without wanting it. My fingers slide over my breasts, they are your fingers. "Down further, please, down further, don't leave me alone with the pleasure." My tongue tastes your lips, wetting them with saliva. It's my mouth. I dream of you, of your lips. A kiss. I only wanted one kiss from you. I would have stuck out my tongue to run it over your full lips. Don't enter into my fantasies. I want to be possessed, fucked, fucked, longed for, chased. By you. I've turned my life upside down. Don't enter into my fantasies too. I wanted to love. My fingers slide towards my belly. I open it delicately. My clit is there, motionless, unable to swell with fantasies alone. I think of you. And I get wet. I smell your fingers. It's my smell but I think I recognize the smell of your sperm. The water. The salts. The perfumes. Nothing. Nothing can take away the smell that remains inside me. Your smell in my belly. I couldn't fight. Her. Ethereal. It was just a name in your voice, but a love in your heart. If I had known her, I would have fought enviously. But I can't fight against the fantasy of a living love. Integrity of mind and body. Now. I miss it. You always said it. I want and I don't want together. It's all a fantasy. THE END.