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.