Stories

Our bodies sprawled over the bed, my arm over yours, your legs crossed upon mine, your head resting on my shoulder as I run my fingers through your hair. Our bodies are not new to each-other, they know their way around and in this we hold our stories. 

 our scars from recklessness, our bodies show age, it shows us where we have been, what we have done, it shows in lines and scars, in fatigue and aches. 

 your body my love is covered in poetry, in heartbreak, stoicism, torn ankles, hair that is different than your younger years, a crease under your eye from staring into a blank screen for too long, muscles that have strengthened in places, lessened in others. Can I look at those poems with desire? yes, I can. I can read our story to date and I can wonder about the years before. 

   I can see furtive digging at your nail beds when you had to hold your words under your breath, I can see absentmindedly clipping your nail far too in. 

I can see the difference between my body and that of a 20 year old, well of course she is at the beginning and I am at the middle  Can I accept that when your eyes cross her body that you will experience something perhaps different than when your body reads mine? Yes, I can, and you know I will appreciate the beauty of younger men as well. Nothing wrong with having that out in the open. 

Yet I seal it all with a kiss for you and fight it with morning runs, face creams, sexy shoes, spanx and yet I know in my heart that our bodies are meant to be ruined from living life.