Love Letters Are Foolish And Sentimental

I wonder if you think of me at all. If you've thought of me even once this summer, like a memory unbidden that you cannot quite forget. You probably don't. Old as you are, there must be plenty of other one-night stands that have made a much bigger impression than I could ever hope to. I was your young, foolish mistake, and I wish you could be reckless all the time.

I remember you at the most inopportune moments. I am working a night shift, the pen in my hand poised to take someone's order when abruptly I can almost (but not quite) feel the slide of your tongue on my thigh, and I drop the pen, startled and flustered. Or I am diligently taking notes in class, and suddenly I hear your voice in my ear, breathless and husky, and the professor could be revealing life's greatest secrets for all I care because right then I cannot process a single coherent thought. Or my parents are telling me something important and instead of filing their pearls of wisdom away, I am distracted by a light pressure on my breasts, ghost fingers brushing over my nipples as they head for parts (un)known.

The smile on your face. The shape of your chin. The jut of your hips. The sweep of your shoulders. I shudder at these snapshot images I had hungrily stored away at the time and conjure them in my mind's eye for later, night-time use.

Was I memorable? Was I your first Asian? Did I leave anything behind?

My God, I want your mouth on my skin again.