She was the kind of girl you’d want naked in bed with you, maybe you made love to her, maybe not, but what you really want is her skin, the smell of it. Fabric distracts though it hugs her the way you wish you could wrap yourself around her. Jewelry, the rings on her fingers are where you’d like to lace yours through spaces that seem meant for you. Necklaces wind around your neck where I’d like to place my hand, there on your throat, so I can be closer to your heart as it beats right there, beneath such flimsy fragile lovely skin.
You wanted this girl arranged on the bed in a way where the light fell on her just so, spilled even, highlighting the curve of the thigh, the skin under her breast, a shoulder connected to a neck that led to a collarbone. You wanted her with a book in one hand, the other in her hair, her body on it’s side so behind or in front of her everything was available for touch. She would read to you, smile, give you a small glance over the pages, but when you looked too interested in her rather than the story she’d look away.
She doesn’t know that you see the words all over her, this sentence on her inner thigh as her foot rises to her shin, in that easily forgotten arch behind her knee where the greatest words lie. Along her jaw that favourite word of “love” or “romance” lingers there waiting for a kiss. You want her rolled over, back to you, and there the end slithers along her spine. You watch as her words crawl down that bend over her backside around the legs and back inside her.
You never want the story to end, but they all do, so she reads and you watch her, she doesn’t notice you because she is reading. You see the story on her, but you’re in the book, and so she keeps her eyes there, waiting for you to rise out of it, while you desire, hunger, want to sink right back into her.