24/ 30 Masterpiece

24/30 masterpiece       When we touched that last time. I tricked myself into thinking it was a good thing. Relaxed into the letting. Took down my hair so your fingers could play. It felt good. Because I didn't know it was the last time. I let   you touch. All of my stuff. You left your finger prints as evidence. At the base of my spine. Never questioning motive. Never believing a touch as gentle as yours could sting leave marks that can only be seen in flashback memories. I thought we were moving towards some new definition. Some new name we would call ourselves.   The notion that you were using my skin as cover, to hinge a door you would close. Me on the other side. No key offered as payment. A sign hung crooked on your intentions. No this girl allowed. Never seemed possible.   Do I still love you?   A questionI keep posing to myself. When I answer, I suspect I am lying.   When we touched that last time. I wish I had been present enough to know what was happening. Maybe I could have seen what was excavated, what was archived, what parts of me were museum-ed to memory Then maybe. Maybe then. I would have registered an ending. I still would not have been prepared.