Years ago now. She's kneeling. Naked. Small. Bronze. Perfect. She's in front of me on the bed. One of my arms is around her waist, my hand on her belly. My other hand is on her boob, I've reached around under her arm. There's a mirror in this room. I've never noticed it before. But our eyes are meeting in it. I have never seen anything so beautiful.
"You're beautiful," I say.
"We are," she whispers. And turns her head and kisses me.
She's small. Her skin is a little lighter than mine. It's like silk. She has these tiny, fine little hairs all over her ass and leading from her belly down to her pussy. I play with her like a toy. I pick her up and put her down, I turn her over and lick her ass and her pussy from behind. She can be fully clothed or naked, in front of me or just a voice on the phone, and I am fighting a constant urge to devour her. She hardly talks when we make love. Or only a few words. "You're wonderful." "I need your mouth on me." "I love you." I match her. Whisper to her only a little. "I love you." We would fall asleep at midnight and wake up, naked, making out, at 2 or 3am, and I would be inside her with neither of us making any effort. She prides herself on how far she can take me down her throat. We have phone sex. We're forced to stay in separate rooms at times, and nights she sneaks into my room. She rubs my arm to wake me up. We kiss for a while, then she tells me she wants me to go down on her. I go down on her and then I put her on her knees and fuck her from behind, in the dark. I'm naked, but her pajamas are still around her legs, her shirt pulled up above her breasts. It will never be like this with anyone again. My body will never want anything like it wants her.
She knows her effect on me. On anyone. She sends me photos of herself. She likes photos of herself. She'll take them herself or have others take them. I've thrown some out, the hard copies. The digital ones I keep, encrypted on my computer, so they're not easy to access. They are there, ready to break my heart any moment. Like googling her name, which I do too often. I stay off of facebook to avoid wondering who her friends are and who she is with now. I have that much discipline. Or listening to her songs. She made me mixes of songs. I never made her any until it was too late. But I made myself several, about her, since. Music.
When we broke up I didn't believe it, not really. We'd broken up before and gotten back. I believed it when she told me she'd been with other men. She told me who. Something broke inside me then. I stumble on their names sometimes, too, online. They still hit me like a punch in the stomach. I didn't think I was a jealous man. I want her to be happy. I don't like this feeling I have when I think of her. I don't like thinking of her with others. I hate it more than I understand. I'm not supposed to. If I loved her I should wish her the best. Now I think of the man she's been with and see signs of him online, I think of him as an idiot and it helps me to want her less: if she wants him and not me, she's a fool. But this is rationalization too. Rationalization or not, it's probably a good idea to stop wanting something you can't get. When will I stop wanting her? Until Voice every woman I have touched since has made me think of her, I've measured everyone relative to her and they've all been found wanting. My failure. My Music. Not mine any more.