I used to wake up at night and crawl out of bed just to look at them. Lighting a cigarette, I would study their essence and try to brand it into my memory. I laid pen to paper, looking for the words to flesh out their lines and textures, their hollows and curves. Each word a painstaking task in an effort to forge their soul. Later, I turned to an inkwell filled with blood to write the words that captured their beauty and charms. I searched their most primal shadows and created the idol of words with which to worship them.
  So many, so long ago, their memories but faint scars raised and diving along my cerebrum. I look through the words transcribed to paper so many years ago and yet I cannot remember their faces; I cannot hear their voices; cannot smell their sex. Remember only the heat of the moment and the tension until release. Their humanity has long ago abandoned them in the notes of memory, and I am left with lines and textures, hollows and curves. It is as though I was not even there for the sex. I studied them and wrote of them as though they were works of art painted by a surreal master, yet their being was lost in the intercourse.
  Too, I wrote of my own scars and those who affected my forever. I look at my flesh today and the blemishes endured in the darkness of lust and know the stories I wrote of them by heart. I carry each of you with me, somewhere. I remember scant details and your beauty encapsulated, frozen in memory.
  I set these words to the page, stripping away their essence. I want you to see them the way that I see them, vulnerable, tragic and raw. Their beauty is for me alone to keep, locked away from view.