fuck.

I can't keep from remembering his fuzzy head, his sickly pale skin fit perfectly on his hard body, the heat in the car, asking me to roll the window down so he could smoke, the way the wooly felt, THE FUCKING SCENT WHEN HE WAS THAT CLOSE TO ME, his shoes and the way he sat on his feet, like a little boy, the way he licks his lips, that wild look in his eyes, sharing cigarettes without ever having to ask, how he kissed my fishnetted foot on the floor in front of the space heater, falling asleep on the couch curled around me like a koala and I couldn't get out from under him, going to get the Christmas tree on the side of the road, your weak chin, how perfectly my face fit into the curve between your shoulderblades, how you felt in bed in the middle of the night and it goes on and on and on and I have to stop.

Is it because it's November?