Lines…

You wake up and she is gone.

Bright sunlight is struggling to spill into your room through the

partially closed blinds.

You check your phone, it’s 8 a.m.

Of course she is gone. She never stays.

Your head sinks back into the pillow.

You move your left leg and you feel the soreness where your leg

joins your pelvic bone.

Of course that hurts.

It was a long night, it was a short night.

Of course you wish she was there in the morning too.

You loved the feel of her body against yours, but you loved

more than that watching her breathe softly in her sleep.

Of course she looks beautiful in her sleep.

You loved her small waist, how it fit into your hands, but you

loved more than that the pattern that stretch marks made on

her thighs.

Of course her skin is smooth.

You loved the way she danced sensually to Trey Songs and

Bryson Tiller, but more than that, you loved the little bursts of

goofiness she had.

Of course she dances like an angel.

You loved the nasty things she whispered in your ear that drove

you wild while you drove home from the club, but more than

that, you loved the pillow talk.

Of course she fits perfectly in your arms.

You wanted to tell her your whole life story. She is a good

listener. She is smart too. You like that.

But… the lines.

They prevent you from telling her.

The lines.

They compel her to leave before dawn.

The lines.

They forbid breakfast in bed, forbid her to wake up in your T-

shirt, forbid you to watch her get dressed in the morning.

The damn lines.

They restrain you from asking questions regarding her personal

life. Most especially the question, “Am I the only one?”

The stupid lines.

They show you her gorgeous body but restrict access to her

beautiful, perhaps wounded, perhaps burning, soul.

Either or, the lines say.

You don’t want to mess up the either. So you might never find

out about the or.

So you might never see the color of her eyes in the sun.

Big deal.

So you may never take her out on a proper date.

Big deal.

So you may never introduce her to your friends.

Big deal.

So you may never tell her why you have that scar on your leg.

Big deal.

So you may never get her a birthday gift. When is that?

Big deal.

Your phone beeps.

It’s her!

“See you tonight?”

Your heart starts racing, you smile.

So maybe you want more.

But what you have is good.

You are not ready to cross the lines.

Of course you aren’t.

Not just yet.

You look at the text again.

Desire burns in your core.

“You bet.”