We still remain silent— for a brief time— bodies spent with exhaustion, the sound of inhale and exhale left in the room as the air cools. You see— we still call each other, and we still answer the phone in a questioning “hello,” even though the name and number appears on the screen. We still agree to meet, and we’ll go out into the coldening winter air, and one of us will buzz the other’s building, knock on the other’s door, and still feel awkward walking in, even though we still have each other’s keys.

We still pretend to care about the words that fill in the time from when our eyes meet until when our lips meet, and from when our hands are at our sides until when they’re on each other. And we still let our eyes close and walls crumble to ruin while removing our clothes and surrendering to the scratchy softness of flannel sheets— the foregone conclusion slipping over us like the winter night devours the afternoon.

And we still tense up with the anticipation of the taste of skin, tongues lapping upward along slithering paths until our mouths find what they want and our hands grab-pull-squeeze-press— sometimes finding each other’s hand and fingers interlocking— as our bodies settle into familiar positions. And we still hold our breaths before the smallest shift of weight and hips angling just enough so entry is possible— potential— probable— and when it does happen, and when there is that feeling of tightness and we exhale ever so forcefully, we still forget everything outside of these few moments when all that matters is the penetration.

We still fuck— but, we also still let it mean something.