The Musician 

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 hang his coat and clean his desk and change the lights.

It always takes a while

For him to turn to me.

For the features of his face to rearrange,

and soften,

As though remembering.

.

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.

A truth revealed by hiding.

 

.

 

“My body likes you.

I like your body.”

Both are true.

He frowns and touches

his stomach without meaning to.

Silence.

A naked reply.

 

.
He falls asleep fully clothed,

With me undressed and awake.

Zippered into the spaces he makes.

Admiring.

 

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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