Missing

Even though I never had you the way I wanted to I miss not having you, if that makes sense. It doesn't.

'I don't like this piece of me'

You resonate a slap along the line of your stomach. I touch a hand against its gentle arc and one on your face, the twin arc in your cheekbone.

'I adore all of you'.

And we shift to accomodate each other, your head and mine parallel on twin pillows, chest touching, eyes together and knees as well.

'Here'

I bring your hand to my neck. I hate people touching my neck.

'To show you I don't mind'.

And then to my own imperfect stomach. Someone once said, 'Her lovely imperfect figure'. It is perfect to me, and I will never tell you what they said even if they meant it well.

A soft sussurous O escapes your mouth and I swallow, and you feel it, and kiss me, and your eyes say, 'I want to please you' and mine say the same. Your earnest face looks quite different in the twilight. How could anyone not think you were utterly wonderful? I am glad that we are here together in the silent shadows cocooned in your bed.

Why don't you dance, I wonder. I think you are ashamed of your body and that is the reason you bob in a masculine way. I know why you go for the other boys, it is because you think you are boring and you don't want to waste someone interesting. I love being boring with you. If that is what you call it when the magnets that attract us seem to pull through our clothes and make me ache to solace you. Let me.