She makes life soothing for me. She shuts the blinds since the sun rears its lazy beginning. She then plays some music on the stereo. She plays with my ears softly while she sings Juciest by Alicia Keys.
"I'm the juiciest baby girl around. And I got 999 men knockin' on my door. I'm the juiciest baby girl around."
She surrounds me without consuming me. I like the way she's sweet with me in a way there is no love to complicate the whine of her throat against mine. I like the way she exists only for me and I only for her.
We are alone and the people we meet will only peek through dusty windows. We won't even have to talk, but when we do, we'll talk about nothing. And she'll breathe into my skin and this is how she'll tell me what I need to hear. She will make me laugh with an ease that tingles on her fingers and drips under my chin.
We fascinate each other with our bodies and our empty minds, but the texture of her life against my palm will be coarse and abrasive to my weak lines. I look at her past and though typical and foreign, it will relieve me slowly.
I don't know where she is now and that's the best part. She's out of reach, far from the touch of my fingers. Sometimes she touches me, the way she's doing now, a sleepy sweep of my spine. I turn and she is gone, but not quite, only stepped out of my vision.
She is the serious one here and a clever one, hidden in my shadow, waiting sly and friendly, the charm of her fingers, her sweet voice dealing invisible kisses to my ears.
My only juiciest wish is to come to her and wake up refreshed in her cooling and curious gaze. As is, there are seas between us, seven or eight or nine, one tranquil, one serene, one frigid.
I gaze across horizons in search of her while she shoots a mirror off the moon and catches my reflection.