The touch of skin on skin, the touch of lips on lips, of tongues flirting. The feel of a hand in hair, on face, neck and back. The touch - the calming, sensual, soothing post coital sensation - of fingers stroking a bare back whilst the caresser chats quietly to the recipient. There are few feelings better than that of skin on skin. There are few things better than the marvel of ‘hairs standing on end’, the slight intake of breath on feeling that hand in the small of your back. Not many things can improve on the flutter that accompanies a really good kiss, so longed for, or the increased heart rate that goes in unison with being touched just the right way. Not many, but some.

The Quiet man is there, in the background, proving his love in words whilst disproving them in abundance in deeds. A recent debate about his lack of contact resulted in him offloading his problems and inability to cope on me whilst I continue to cope alone with mine. I tried to explain it to him but emotion and his disinterest brought a swift halt to that. Subsequently the frequent, post row texts have dissipated and we are quickly reverting to our standard once a day habit. My patience has worn thin, I just don’t want to hurt him.

And all the while there remains the memory of Him. He whose kisses still touch my lips, albeit in memory only. He, to whom I gave so much care, trust and honesty yet who repays me in silence or requests for sympathy. He, who made me tremble at his very touch, made me weep with his gentle kiss. He, who I abhor yet crave in equal measure and who demands, in some twisted and incomprehensible way, my unreserved loyalty. He, who I exorcised so efficiently, yet who haunts me.

He is past, the present is ending, the future...