He kissed me, one of those kisses that reminded me of writing in my journal. It had the same purpose, that it was done for memories sake, the urgent need of marking a moment. I loved it and I watched it destroy me, and he watched it destroy me.
My mother threw herself at him, like my book tugs on my mind to mark it with ink of memories. She threw herself at him and I hated her, she created memory and sketched her own full naked body, completing details from her rear, the end she couldn’t see. I hated watching that happen.