There is no time like the present — no body like my own — no scars, or birthmarks, or pigment that could recreate or duplicate to love you just as well.
I may never understand my own beauty. I may never believe it. Your hands on my face like I am something precious — something you needed but mistook for want — something you recognized all those years ago when I was just a photograph, maybe less.
I know so little about lust — I am not one to be devoured. Still, there is something to be said for being whole. This is not a tragedy — to have my body be a vessel for more than desire — to be sturdier — to be full.
I have built up men like burned down churches, gave them something to believe, but you were different. You were stronger. You saw yourself as I saw myself — as something finished — still growing — but never missing. Something you had not become, but always were — something that existed in the hollow of your bones, making them unbreakable, impervious to rot or rust.
Still, you kiss your dreams into my mouth. They are long, and hazy, and soft — and I am there — in your arms, always — I am there.