I hate the fact that I love her so much.
Today, I hate it.

Yesterday, I loved it.
I enjoyed being with her. Her thoughts were enough to put me in a trance.
I love/d her with all I could, with all I had.
And then, one day, I departed.

Days when we both used to meet.
After enough of arguing over the place, over the speed of the car, over the color of the clothes, over the smell I wear, over the shoes I untie, we agree to do something similar.
Love each other.
Like no one else ever would.

The slow movements that would lead to become a pile of clothes. The uncontrollable kisses that erupted like a fire from within. The involved wetness that she liked.
How quickly, and yet slowly, our body became one. Each cell percolated through the membrane called love. We made love. Over and over again. And each time, the shrill of her moans coaxed me for more. And lot more of it.
Cupping her tender chest with bare hands, and feeling the stiff nipple around. That was like finding the bark and edge of a tree. A tree that shelters me, tenders me, for a long long time. I sucked onto them for a long time. Marks on them, oh how she loved to see. She taught me how to vaccum kiss and create this wonderful marks. And everytime she used to tell me the day after, that its still paining. Ironically, she used to say that with a smile. So as to how her bathing ritual on days after we make love, are unusually longer and happier. Whenever she cleansed those body parts, they would remind her of me. How I cherish each one of them.
How I treat her like a godess. And how she enjoys the feel of it.

Oh, how I loved making love to her.
How I loved hearing her moans and the tender smiles that followed.

I miss her on that pillow today.
Has she still left one for me, on her bedside?