Making love to her is complicated.

Her almond brown eyes are covered with a teary glaze whenever she looks at me, as if she’s on the verge of sobbing.  She never looks at me long enough to shed any tears though.

Her soft and supple sienna skin melts into the tips of my fingers whenever I caress her left cheek marked with fading splotches of mahogany where her acne scars used to be.   I press myself against her until I can smell the faint scent of Shea butter radiating from her pores.  She likes when I do that.  I run my fingers down her arms,  tracing stretch marks and self-harm scars.  She doesn’t like that.  I do it anyway, just to remind her of where we came from and how much I love her.  Every single thing about her.

I apologize for hurting her, I never meant to.  I told her that if I didn’t truly love her, she would be dead by now.  I know it sounds self-righteous but it’s true.

I have an obsession with her flaws.  The flesh on her belly ripples in waves whenever she is in motion. Sometimes I imagine myself as a sailing ship lost at sea and her tides bring me back to shore every time I feel lonely.

I love tangling my hands into her midnight woolen curls.  Pulling on a coil of frizz, I watch it spring back into place, spiraling and dancing to the rhythm of her musical moans.

I wonder if the neighbors can hear us.  I wonder if they’ve realized they’re living among pure art.  I wonder if they know they’ve experienced a free exhibition of our love.  I wonder if they will regret how badly they talk about our lawn, or their sinister jokes  about how she never comes out of the house. I wonder if they’ll just consider our noise a disturbance, like they always do.

I love the thickness of her thighs, the friction between them, and the way her gentle flesh suffocates me as she sleeps, making my sleepless nights almost bearable.  She hates them though.  She’s always doing weird exercises in awkward positions to “get rid of her cellulite”, but I keep telling her that her size is just right…for me at least.  Why does anyone else matter if I love her already the way she is?   I keep asking her if she’s pursuing someone else, if she’s moved on.  She keeps denying it.  Only me, she says with a mouthful of carrots.  It’s only me, she only loves me.   I am her everything.  She just wants to be the best she can be so –

– yeah right.

I see the way she smiles and hums around the house, pretending to clean.  When I mention their name she looks away, afraid that I’ll be able to read between lines that don’t even exist (because she is an open book that only I have written in).  Someone else has been flipping the pages and now we’re back to chapter one and once again she’s trying to prep herself forsomething  that doesn’t even exist.  What the fuck.

No matter how fiercely, consistently, and passionately I make love to her, I will never be enough.  She will always need validation and inspiration from someone else, something else.  She is an empty vessel and I’ve been pouring pieces of myself into an abyss.




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