In those days you were obsessed with her neck.
That's all you could have -
a few inches of her skin, the tufts of honey hair, the small freckles
adorning porcelain. Almost breakable.
Yours without her knowing.
And you would watch, determined,
every shift of her neck, every dropped glance
down to a page and every subtle gaze.
You consumed her as she consumed her surroundings.
Slowly, you witnessed more.
The rise and fall of each breath,
the arching of her back, and
the deep mysterious sighs you wished to understand.
You sat behind her, absorbing this image until you,
more confident, could sit beside her,
memorizing this new angle.
This new side of her.
Now you sit behind her
and kiss the constellations of her lower back,
connecting her adornments with your lips.
Now you memorize the bumps of her spine
that lift her soft skin.
Now you marvel at the naked skin held in your hands.
Now she is yours, the always adored
and this lower back belonging to you is forgetful of the ones that came before
and willfully blind to the ones that might follow.
