She sat cross-legged and naked on the bed amongst a tangle of sheets.
Her hair was tousled, her face flushed, her body still marked with pleasure and pain.
‘I’m listening,’ she said, her voice serious.
Her eyes were closed, her back straight, her lovely lips slightly pursed. Her head tilted slightly to one side the way she always did when she concentrated. She looked like a serious school girl.
I think I adored her then, above all our other moments.
She opened her eyes and raised impatient eyebrows.
‘I’m ready,’ I said. I positioned the laptop on my bare thighs.
‘Good’ she smiled.
I read her a handful of poems.
Maybe ten. I tried to read them with the same passion, joy, sorrow, desire and love that I felt at the time of writing. At the end of each I studied her features, trying to gauge her reaction.
She was silent and utterly still, save for the slightest, barely perceptible nod requesting me to continue. Her face became sadder with every verse.
When the last line of the last piece had faded in the quiet room she began to sob soundlessly.
I took her in my arms and nestled her safe into the hollow of my shoulder. Her tears trickled over my skin.
‘Why?’ I asked her, touching her wet face and rocking her gently. ‘Were they really so bad?
She punched my chest gently.
‘No, stupid, stupid man. I love them.’
She sniffed. Her voice wavered.
‘I just wish you had written them for me.’
© the author writing as the Romantic Dominant
Art by Thomas Saliot