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We were acquainted as curious children. A little less ripe, but a lot less routine. I remember when we used to live on our lawn that didn’t have sharp, prickly grass, only a piece of smooth land, and then grass that grew long and lustrous like hair. At the prime of your youth, you found the mower that left our home empty again, so that you could invite the visitors, whom you loved for a while or for a long time, without feeling ashamed of our clandestine affair. You let them have a taste of me and to have all their ways with me, as you lie contented.

My dear, you don’t need these lovers. They’ll soon forget me once they’ve forgotten you. You who have forgotten the us who have experienced the ecstasy, under a blanket in a dark room with a locked door. As you moved me about in our secret place. As we relished the floods of bliss together. As we lay together with your hand still over me, spent but satisfied. One day, when you realize that your visitors can no longer give you what we had, my dear, you will come back to me and I will still be here for you, a little more routine, but a lot more ripe.