The light comes in through the window
like a slow decision—
grey and unhurried,
catching the dust motes in a holding pattern
above the sheets.
You are standing there,
weight on one leg,
a simple shift of gravity
that rearranges the whole room.
I look at you
and the words pile up
useless bricks
because looking at you—
looking at the truth—
it shuts you up,
makes you listen.
You are the only thing that matters
in this hemisphere.
I say it out loud,
heavy and flat:
You are the goddamn masterpiece.
The rest of the world
is just a sketch,
a bad draft
thrown in the wastebasket—
but you,
you are the final print.
I crawl across the mattress,
knees dragging over the cotton,
approaching the altar.
You don’t move.
You let the air settle around you,
confident as a loaded gun.
I touch your hip—
the bone rising under the skin
like buried treasure.
It is perfect,
I tell you.
The way the skin stretches,
the way the muscle connects.
It is engineering of the highest order.
I press my face into your stomach,
smelling the soap and the sweat,
the scent of a real person—
not a fantasy,
not a ghost.
You are here,
solid and warm,
and you are perfect.
I trace the line of your ribcage,
counting the ladder rungs
climbing up to the heart.
You are beautiful
in a way that hurts,
in a way that tears
the lining of the chest.
I kiss the underside of your breast,
the heavy weight of it in my hand,
gravity working in my favor.
You are the queen of this cheap room,
the ruler of the dusty carpet.
I worship the nipple—
stiff and pink,
a beacon in the grey light.
I take it in my mouth
like a sacrament,
and you sigh,
a sound that rewrites
the history of the afternoon.
I pull back to look at you:
face flushed,
eyes dark.
You are the best thing I have ever seen.
I say it again:
You are the only thing.
I slide my hand down
past the navel,
into the heat,
into the wet reality.
You are dripping gold,
leaking diamonds.
I praise the slick.
I praise the slide.
I praise the way you open up
like a lock that wanted picking,
turned by the want,
turned by the need.
You are perfect when you break,
perfect when you shatter.
I drive my fingers in,
reading the braille of your pleasure,
telling you with every thrust:
You are holy.
You are right.
You are the answer
to the question
I forgot I was asking.