He's beautiful. His skin is milky brown, his lips soft, shapely, just right for kissing. He's smooth from gradual wear, like buttery, aged leather. Except to me he is ageless, timeless even. He kisses me like time doesn't exist, like there aren't minutes in hours in days in weeks in years. He kisses me like he'll forget my lips, like he wants to memorize the fine lines, the carefully placed sighs, the shape. And so I kiss myself into a memory, burned into his brain so that he'll never forget the way I made him feel. The way his gaze singled me out into an oblivion of desire, of love. I kiss us naked, our bodies bare and flawless in each others' eyes. He kisses all my places so many times I don't dare to keep count. His lips dance on knees, soft inner thighs, shiny mounds of flushed flesh just beginning to seep desire and need. He bites me, he teases me. His tongue dances on the mounds, the inclines of hipbones, pointy delicious nipples and a warm neck. Then I take the lead, and my tongue and lips can now dance around flesh and warmth, around his perfect dick, around his soft, small ears and those soft lips. Now I want to feel him in me and so I ease into the moment, slipping onto a world of pleasure, moaning involuntarily when it reaches the hilt. Nothing could feel better than this in me, in this moment. I rock back and forth, up and down, enjoying the feel of his hands holding tightly to my waist. Then he's on top, then on the side, then behind me, until I've orgasmed hard enough to rock our little oblivion backwards and forwards and every which way.
--I don't want to leave you.
--Don't leave me.
--I have to go.
--Don't go.
--Just a little longer?
--Just a little.
And so he kisses me again, because I've begged him not to leave me and deep down he knows he can't. We only kiss. He kisses my lips and my neck, my tits and my bellybutton, my hipbones and my knobby knees. He whispers little goodbyes into my skin until they are absorbed, and then he slips out of the sheets, into clothes, and out of the door and I am left alone until the next time, until there's more time. Sometimes I feel we're having some torrid affair, even though I talk to his mother with him on Sundays and we look in antique shops and Tiffany's for wedding rings, and we're saving for a house. He still leaves me and that makes this less permanent than I'd like. I know it's impossible to be together constantly, but I wish he wouldn't fly off to cities that I forget the names to, just to talk to men who's names he'll forget as well. It's terrible waiting the two, three, and sometimes even five days until his return. I work, I edit, have meetings, and I write. I clean and tidy and organize. I fill the kitchen with good smells for when he walks in the door, because I know he doesn't like much restaurant food. Time after time, the routine of our life reeks of impermanence and I wish it didn't, because I know he loves his work, and he loves me, and we love each other. There is just this unbreakable attachment that I have to his spirit, and when he's far away I feel like my soul is stretched across state lines, and it's all I can do not to snap.