Mimi and Mona: ©To Our Graves -- from the “Letters I Never Sent You” series

From the "Letters I Never Sent You" collection/series, there are some memories we must all consider taking to our graves. 

©To Our Graves

from the “Letters I Never Sent You” series

Mimi Wolske

All rights Reserved

How Well Do I Know You from those first provocative words in letters and phone calls when you courted and wooed me? I’m awash in nostalgia as I look into the castle where our memories are recorded.

Words growled like a wolf the first time we made love and you, playing the role of the alpha wolf, insisting that I say I belong to you (and me, smiling at my playful thought and saying, “You belong to me.”), and, then, you laughing and growling.

Words shared about past lovers (and me, once again laughing at my thoughts, deciding to post my limerick about you and her, naked, and the saran wrap) and her asking you, “You told her about that!? Why?”). The words you limited after that over the years. I still laugh.

Words you put to paper in poems and limericks for me, about me, and shared on your blog for the world the read. But also the words about me you protected from the public eye as well as those hateful words of revenge you told others and then told me what you shared with them hoping to keep us invisible from jealous mouths and prying eyes.

I know your eye color, the names of your blogs, the fake names you use on social internet sites, your birth date, how short I should trim your toenails, your college major, your moods, your favorite color, your humor, your love of a good nap, hobbies you like and that massage table you had once, your religion, what you like for breakfast and how you like your asparagus prepared as a snack, that you chase women, and I know your full name.

I know you by heart; you’re in my heart. You’re a loving memory on every part of me. How well I know the taste of you along my lips, and the corners of my mouth; the feel of you warm and moist at my crown, my nape, my hands, my back, my navel, my toes.

The commanding gentleness of your hands is registered on my shoulders, my cheeks, my back, my waist and hips, the back of my thighs, and my hands as your fingers teased and tensed every iota of skin day and night, as those hands directed me as we danced the tango—in our fashion.

Forever in reverie is the weight of you against my breasts; my belly; between my thighs and against the matted, black mass of curls at their apex; on my back; and against my buttocks.

You can never be alien to me again; our DNA is blended together in every city, every state, every country we have shared time as two, as one, as partners for minutes, hours, days and nights, and weeks. It has found homes on every book, every CD, every remote, painting, piece of each other’s clothing, every room key, every house key, the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge, every boat paddle and cabin at Sandy Point, restaurants, bus seat, car seats and doors, the zoo, the Roswell Alien Museum, every bottle of massage oil, the trailer down near the border, casinos, beds, chairs, counters, showers, divan/sofas our bodies have touched.

We have shared laughs, political thoughts, tears and sadness, loss, happiness, jokes, religions, advice, vulnerable moments, anger, intimacies, special names/abbreviations for each other, gifts, photos together and separate in all the places we visited, and so much more.

How Well Do I Know You? As well as any loved one, more than some, never less than any. I know you like me and also more than like me.

 

Some memories we take to our graves.