c. Lindsey Smolensky
I used to wonder if you loved me because I let you.
Because I served you tiny sample tastes from tiny spoons that are only appealing
because they are tiny. Because I gave you canvas for your scratchy, facial stubble;
and I’d lie back patiently as you wrote rough drafts of labored loss upon my flesh.
Penciled etchings for you to sit back and study, just as you did with those pages
and pages you used to bring home from work. There were always so many; but you never
tired of them. So I would let you twitch your fingers upon me in calculation, and
compress your face at the curves of my body until you were satisfied. Until that
moment when you would remember that the canvas had a breath. It pulsed and leaked
and echoed when you called out its name. And you would get embarrassed, rub your
face with half-remorse, as I refrained from editing your story. Instead I merely
kissed your prickled dimples with a smile, for you somehow always left me one full
spoon away from satisfied.
