My Lover's Love
He'd said he'd needed to get away. To have some time to think, but he returned. I was glad to welcome him back in my cold bed. I stroked his long black hair as he slept, watching the dreams flicker across his face. His caress, fingers rough and bitten, woke me as they moved up my body with a restless urgency. And later, as we ate breakfast, I saw his eyes wandering. He drummed his fingers on the pine table but it no longer irritated me as it had before. I knew how silence could echo around my head till I felt I was going crazy. The methodical rhythm beat in time with my heart, with the blood pumping through my veins, keeping me warm, alive.
Suddenly, he jumped up and went through to the living room. He carefully took the guitar from its stand and wiped off the thin layer of dust with his sleeve. He twanged and turned, wincing at every raw note, coaxing them into tune. As his fingers worked the strings, rediscovering the chords with such all-consuming pleasure, I felt excluded, a trespasser, spying on two lovers from the shade of the doorway. Not daring to move lest I made a noise and broke the spell. Not wanting to be seen, knowing that I would always feel like this, that there was this part of him I could never reach. Wondering how long he would stay this time.