I lay on his lap in the dark
pale faces cotton freckled with time 
under the thick duvet of a winter night 
where there is permission to pretend 
what he feels for me is more than a mixture of limerence 
all too familiar impatience 
and carefully hidden lust 

I pretend to be asleep, 
fascinated by his fingertips marking patterns around my imperfections 
how he stops every now and then 
to let his eyes pause 
at the spots of brown speckled all over me  

like I was being painted, 
not with a clean stroke, 
but instead a little at a time 
until the sunlight of my childhood summers
forgot what she was doing 
and decided I must be finished, 
ready to present alongside the rest of those June-kissed 
in a daze of August leaps and trampolines 
wondering who will look at us
and nothing more 

I cannot feed him 
no matter how his flesh pulls and pleads and paws at me 
his eyes remind me of grassy fields after the rain 
his voice rumbles, low
his nose points outward, right at me 
his laugh hides behind a bony hand 
like he isn’t used to the sensation 

he moves my hair behind my ear
seems to whisper 
“i love you”

maybe I love him back 
floating between
some dream 
and this illusion 

I am his decoration on the wall 
a body 
waiting patiently 
to be devoured.