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They do not know of his pain, his indecision. “Shall she be
blissful, or shall she be tortured,” my love says. “It’s always in the eyes,”
he whispers. Will I reflect the affections of misery, joy, and fury that shine
in his own?
Does he think me beautiful? I do not know if I am so. I am
incomplete, this I am certain, for I ache for more substance. Something is off,
but I do not blame him, for others demand perfection. They expect sacrifice.
His hands move effortlessly across my curves, hugging my
frame and rendering me speechless. The flow of his movements a dance, his
excitement pulsing through his soft touch. A streak of ultramarine, a halo of
gold, and a final dab of crimson to my lips, the climax—the completion. My
gentle lover weeps. He loves me, of this I have no doubt.