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Salome

Image by himanshu gunarathna from Pixabay

I HAVE HAD MANY WOMEN in my life. I can smell the sweet perfume of one; hear the melodic singing of another; nod to the lyrical tunes of one Esther; recite Rheina’s poems; dance to the tunes of Fay’s music; and listen to the R&Bs Mia dedicated to me. Country music that Cindy loved plays in the background, and Melly’s Someday by Michael Learns is a constant reminder of what used to be. I see Monica strip dance before me, Mira teaching me what my mother never did, and I will never forget how Becky kissed.

But no one is like Salome.

Her eyes, her laughter, her playful self, her kisses, her embrace, her lips, her body, her splendour, her magnificence, her inner beauty—no human woman can match Salome. Angel embodied.

But I hurt Salome.

I walked out on her.

I have gallivanted for years seeking unbridled pleasure in solicitous liaisons; roamed the streets picking anyone who smiled at me, who scooped the flirt of the year award, who cat-walked with grace no model ever mustered, or who showed too much body and booty.

It seems like a lifetime that I adored this splendid creature, like a lifetime that I had known her—Salome, my body and soul.

I must go back to Salome.

I just hope to God that she’d be there, waiting, and single.