Disclaimer: Not mine.

Word Count: 181

Warning: One use of the 'f ' word.

He never goes home with blonde women.

The darker-haired the better; tall, plump, anything that doesn't seem at all familiar.

Sometimes it's not even a woman. He spreads his hands across flat chests and closes his eyes and thrusts to the sound of deep, rasping voices, and it doesn't help at all, it never helps.

He chooses people that don't remind him of her at all; except he is always reminded of her. She is always in his head, for in his very searching for something, someone that can ease his memories, he puts her in the forefront of his mind. He closes his eyes and fucks men, women, dark hair and short hair, smoldering eyes and high-pitched giggles and lazy smirks, and it's Lyra, Lyra on his lips, in his head, in his heart, in his very being.

He goes to bed with lonely people, tired people, people hurting like him, desperate to find solace somewhere, anywhere, but it's blonde hair and sweet, red lips that call him into sleep with gentle arms; and it's LyraLyraLyra forever in his dreams.