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.
.
We don’t see each other often
and so I take pleasure in the preparation.
Night time.
Languid at the mirror.
A few extra minutes with make up.
Freshly shaved.
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.
.
It always takes a while
For him to turn to me.
The features of his face rearrange,
As though remembering,
And the wash of his caress
Smoothes up my side
to circle my breast perfectly.
.
His talent is in his hands.
Guitar hands.
Used to finding music with his fingers.
The practiced amount of pressure,
The precise spacing,
To grab a handful of ass 
And strike a chord.
.
“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.
I like your body.”
Both are true.
He frowns and touches
his belly without meaning to.
Silence returned. 
A naked reply.
.
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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