Bodyworks

He was in love with her, the physical immediacy of her. How she felt, the soft plumbing curves of her body, her stomach, her breasts, the way his neck filmed up slightly when she breathed on him in the morning, the slight bitter tang of her breath when she didn’t brush. Eyebrows, plucked infrequently, odd and half-grown in, penciled infrequently still. Stray flakes of eyliner that flaked off onto the pale light of morning pillows. I was in love with her. I still was. I loved everything about her. Except for the things that I didn’t.

But girl, love, darling, madame, dear, she who I loved. Let it never be said that I did not love you completely, every aspect of who you were, every nook and cranny, fold and follicle, lash and lingering touch, let it never be said that I did not love it at all, all of you, and all of it. Never let it be said you are not beautiful.


now just to pin down this miserable voyeurism thing for the story.