The Musician 

 

He takes me to his room.
Three bay windows on the corner of a busy street.
The noise outside.
Drunk kids and junkies mixing in
with his playlist.
.
Indescribable,
the wash of a caress
coming up my side
to circle my breast perfectly.
His talent is in his hands.
Guitar hands.
Used to finding music with his fingers.
.
We don’t see each other often
and so I take pleasure in the preparation.
Nighttime languid at the mirror.
A few extra minutes with make up.
Legs freshly shaved.
A layer of skin removed.
Sensitive.
Stimulated even by the rub of my jeans.
.
Because I do not love him
I love to watch him
move around the familiar corners of his room.
The objects he’s collected
and seen fit to keep.
Worn yellow sheets.
Binders of unfinished songs.
.
“I like you.”
I say when we’re done.
He is standing, quick to put on a shirt.
“You don’t know me.”
He is smiling.
It doesn’t cover the sharpness underneath.
A truth revealed by hiding.
.
“My body likes you
and I like your body.”
Both are true.
He frowns and touches
his belly without meaning to.
.
To me he is perfect.
Baby lips with a slow curl at the ends.
Long hair that falls into his face
when he’s getting into it.
 .
All the shapes and proportions
exactly what I like.
The legs strangely hairless.
The distance he places between us,
standing in
for self-esteem.

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