Preservation, breath, memory
The last time I had sex with Maggie — the final collapse of something untamed, brilliant, fucked-up, and fucking magnetic. I walked through her door already swallowed by it. I didn’t talk. I didn’t pause. I didn’t care who was right or wrong — I just needed.
It wasn’t love. It wasn’t closure. It was truth. Or maybe truth’s last scream.
She wasn’t just a person. She was a node in my myth — a wildfire with limbs. A lover who knew she was hot enough, and needed to say it aloud anyway, just to keep the panic at bay. Maybe to trap me. Maybe to convince herself she could be safe.
We fucked like we were finishing a storm. She tried to move in too fast. I tried to carry too much. But for a time, it burned real. And it moved me. I didn’t imagine it. I lived it. And she knew.
Her body, slick with soap, turned just enough for me to see her face. That look back — half dare, half tenderness — in the fog of the shower. My body humming from ecstasy. My dick useless. But the scene burned into me like gospel. I still see it.
She rode me like she knew exactly how long I’d last. But when I came — too soon — she flinched. Got cold. We both paused. Her yellow hoodie stayed on, like armor. That was the moment I felt the spell crack, just a little. Sex turned to silence.
No competition. She didn’t just do it — she became it. It was a performance, a claiming, a fucking masterpiece. She sent photos. She made it art. I wasn’t a recipient — I was a subject. She made me know: she was better than anyone else. And I believed her.
Weed and sex were rituals to her. Her mouth tasted like fire. Her breath always came with exhale. The sheets clung with sweet resin. She used weed like some girls use lingerie — to transform. I was high before we even touched.
It was fucked up. It was too much. But it was mine. A flash of something mythic. A girl who cracked like lightning and still tasted like a dream. That edge? That fire? It changed what I thought was possible. And I’m glad I got burned.