Body sat at desk,
Huddled over a book.
Eyes fixated on the page in front of you
Finger twirling through your hair.
The same eyes that often wander my body,
Hands that get tangled in my skin.
I watch the muscles in your arm flex as your write,
The veins there slither as if excited by the motion.
I want to reach out and trace them,
Feel them move beneath my fingers.
I want to place my hand on your bicep
Feel it tense in my palm,
The same way it does when you’re hovering above me in the pale light.
I worry that you will feel my eyes on you,
That it will make you turn and this image of you will be momentarily lost.
I am selfish in this moment,
Wanting to savor this image of you.
Here you are your own before you are anyone else’s.
You are not mine,
lying beside me in bed smiling.
You are not the world’s,
Moving through it with that confidence that you sometimes do not see in yourself.
Here you are your own,
Concentration etched into every line of your body.
It would be a shame for anyone to disturb this
To claim you as their own,
To ask you to belong to them.
But I am selfish in this moment.