August 6, 2012
That’s what you called my thighs as we tangled in each other, and as I lie here with the wetness we made together drying under me, that’s what I call this relationship: Perfect.
If you opened your eyes, I’d see they’re the same robin’s egg shade of blue as the sheets. But you don’t open them; they are shut and shaded with a dark fringe of lash.
Perfect, the stubble of two days on your cheeks and chin, the casual shock of black hair falling over your forehead. Perfect, the musculature of your naked frame in a semi-fetal position amongst the bedding. Perfect, the scent of our sweat.
We have the same expectations of each other, the same desires. Neither one of us wants more than the other can give. There will be no heartache or longing. We understand each other.
I rise earlier than you and shower alone, and then hurry back to the bedroom where I can stare at you while I pull on my clothes. Your beauty is breathtaking and for just a moment I wonder how I can leave you here like this.
If I live to be one hundred, I will never experience a love as perfect as ours.
Careful not to wake you completely, I lean over and caress your hair with my cheek.
“I have to go,” I whisper.
You half-turn, half-reach for me, half-asleep. “Already?”
I kiss your lips, which are dry with the morning. “Good-bye.”
Rolling my bag to the door, I take one more look at you and I realize that I have never and will ever know a love as complete as ours. That realization is so profound that I could cry, but I’m too happy for tears.
I step out into the hallway and shut the door behind me, thankful that you never asked me, “What’s your name?”