Your lips are red and bruised; long brown hair ripping through your back. The curls rage a war against themselves much like toddlers- without any real loss or win. Long, slender fingers are swirling my shirt from behind, your breath is tickling my neck and you push me into a hug.

And so the game begins.

There are no laws to this, we try to invent them as we go. Pushing the envelope is your specialty and I knew that when we first met. I can feel a slight tugging on my sweats, signaling them to come off. I can't help but give off a small sigh and breathe your name.

Its not orthodox, what happens to you and I. I don't know how you tucked yourself so tightly in my heart, just as I don't know why Christ is our savior. Is there anything you can't do?

You're getting married to him in a week; he's up-and-coming, handsome, and not female. Soon I'll be as sane a little girl as I was three years ago.

But alas, I'm not even sure I was sane before I met you.

"I love you, don't unlove me," you whisper, trying not to betray the emotions in your voice. Almost wistfully you begin to say, "Don't leave me..." and continue your ministrations on my neck.

You know that I can, and I hope you hear my words. I remember everything I can't remember. I don't know when or why you did it, but I remember what you did. Little tiny springs of revelation creep up and tell me about you. Try to hide, try to deceive, but just remember this one thing.

You lost the game.