When you disappeared

The last time I saw you, it was your reflection: the city spread out behind you from forty floors up, shining through the image of your skin, glistening. Bleak. I nearly forgot my scarf, graphic black and white, that held your eyes tightly shut. I told you my job is truly half to be a spy, and half to be a detective. I crept out of your room after having handed you the worst decision: you could let me have my way with you as thoroughly as I craved with no promise of release, or you could crumple at my feet, still enclosed in black leather straps, and offer yourself, spattering sweat and your own fluids into your palm. You were wise and chose torment, and you trembled as you took it, and you were smiling as I slipped back into my coat.