Ebony kisses

"What are you thinking?"

You never asked, but if you did, right at that moment, right when my nose was pressed softly against the back of your shoulder, my arm around you, our feet intertwined and the gentle spring breeze kissing our damp bodies while the birds chirped outside, I would have replied:

"I'm in heaven."

I would have replied:

"If I died right now ... right at this very moment ... I hope at some point in a next life I get to relive this minute."

I would have replied:

"Did you know your skin smells like sweet Egyptian musk, and so does your hair. And look at your skin -- it couldn't be any more black than mine white? Look -- isn't the contrast of our beings absolutely beautiful? Aren't we ... just ... beautiful?"

But ... because you never asked, you'll never know the million little things I wanted to tell you, and that's alright because it's better that way. I guess. Yes. It is. It's better you know nothing of my thoughts of our shared moments.

After all, in the partnership we have ambiguously arranged, emotions should not be uttered, nor shared. Fucking your personal trainer can have its set backs ... and push ups ... and lat pull downs ...

Instead we lay there, in each others arms. Two little spoons. Two little souls, lonely and in need of some comfort. For the moment.

You move. Shift a little. I assume you're going to get going.

Instead. You stay.

Your tight dread locks tickle part of my cheek. You can't see me, but I'm smiling.

What am I thinking? I'm thinking:

Remember these moments, Rose. These moments, these thoughts. Remember this hour -- the smell of him, the grip of him, the needing of him. Take it all in.

To this day, I believe that hour was made just for us.

And as I ponder to myself now, as I rekindle the thought of these moments -- moments that happened weeks ago -- that one hour was an hour well spent.

An hour well kept ...

An hour that was made just for us.