I met Aphrodite’s anarchist sister in a backstreet café in Spain. She lit my joint, rewired my brain, and reminded me love should always leave burn marks.
She said her name was Lila, she spoke like whiskey tasted. Warm, strong, and unforgettable. Met her in a nowhere café that smelled like sweat, espresso, and the kind of sex you remember during funerals. Her hair looked like it was always windblown. Her laugh sounded like it didn’t give a fuck about the world.
We shared a joint rolled from some Moroccan mystery, and her lipstick smudged the tip red like a warning. The sun hit her collarbone like it was trying to pray. I didn’t ask questions. You don’t interrogate miracles.
She talked about poetry like it was pornography, said Neruda was a coward and Bukowski needed a bath. Then she quoted Sappho between drags, eyes half-lidded, fingers tracing invisible curses into the tabletop.
"You know," she said, exhaling something holy, "most people mistake obedience for romance."
She kissed me like a revolution. Slow at first, then all teeth and need. I tasted salt, sin, and oranges. My spine forgot its purpose. My name turned to ash in her mouth.
We made love in a hostel that creaked like it was haunted. She moved like prophecy. I bled awe. The neighbors clapped when we finished. She took a bow.
After, she lit another joint and told me she used to believe in soulmates until she realized most souls are just passing through, looking for somewhere to land before they disappear again.
She disappeared at dawn. Left only a matchbook, a Polaroid, and the scent of her on my skin. No goodbye. No promises.
Just the echo of her voice: “Don’t chase me. Just burn better.”
I’ve been burning ever since.
Read this on Substack where it first appeared — if you’re into that sort of thing.
