You would always tell me how faultlessly the small of my back fit into your hand.
And how my rose cheeks matched your flushed face.
You said it drove you wild to see me in velvet and lace.
I often asked you if the pressure of my existence kept you awake at night.
The inconclusive response made me wonder what the point of seeing someone bare was if all they took off was their clothes.
Two months later you tell me that skin renews itself every twenty eight days. And it had been almost nine weeks since you last held me.
In the most fragile voice, you said you felt like you had finally rid yourself of me.
It's been years since we last spoke, and I am still marveling at how you can love someone if all you ever touched was their skin.