260 Weeks of Beautiful Sex

There is a tastefully nude picture of a girl being double-teamed
by two men, on a sofa from the early nineties. The top
of her face has been cut off

by the frame, but I wonder: Is it you? Have you been found?

The curvature of her breast is not
unlike yours -- a slight point. As if to stand up and say "Hello!" or "I'm a slow
wave and will pull you out to sea". The coloring

of her skin is from your spectrum. I know the taste: lightly bronzed
from the beach, or sunbathing topless in your backyard
while your parents were at work. She is being handled, but not

unkindly.

One man, made of torso and knees, is between yours --
arching your back as he pulls you around him. The other

man is clutched in your right hand, but that's not what
I'm drawn to. There is a bracelet on your wrist that I bought
for you at a flea market.
Elegant and understated, much like

yourself. And the metal on bare and moist flesh
makes me miss you more than I ever have. And your lips

are puckered and your cheeks are sucked in like
you're being fed. Nourished. And it's all that I can do
to try and stop looking at the picture, but it's the closest

I've been to you in years.

Like when we ate pizza and drank wine and walked through Newport in the snow and I let you wear my coat 'cos you didn't have one (it was warmer earlier in the day) and when we got back inside we kissed almost by accident and you straddled my lap as I took off your shirt and carried you into my bedroom where we made love that night without protection and you cried afterward saying "I'm not sad but I'm not happy either" and "I'm glad we can use each other" and a month after you left I called Laura by your name because my apartment was so very used to your face.

You are the coldest and most far away, and I am to thank
for this. Would two-hundred and sixty weeks of beautiful sex be overkill?
Would you eventually tire of me?

I was never tired of you. Just tired. But every woman I have ever written
is you in new clothing.
Shorter hair
or a darker shade.
The repetitive act is

sad, really. But you look happy
in the picture
with your new friends.

We should all hang out sometime. I mean, if they're cool.


(Click here for the spark.)