"It isn't right," she moaned in the silence.
She had awoken to a bed empty but for herself, a sliver of light invading from the door left slightly ajar. It pierced her eyes like the dagger its shape suggested, a long and cruel blade stretched across her.
It isn't right, she repeated, inwardly. Dreams and ecstasy make passionate love in the dead of the night, forgotten but for wisps in the morning, ethereal fluid running through corporeal hands.
Such was last night.
I knew it happened. I knew his face. But I couldn't attach a body, couldn't assign actions to our activity.
He left, and with him went my memories, however young. They always left me; lovers all die before the morning.