There are shadows dancing on the wall, dim and blurry like the memory of our night within the sheets. The rumpled folds of the satin cloth cast a luminous but warm glow onto the headboard of our bed. And in the lamplight, there are no imperfections, no scars. Each curve of my body clings deliciously to your wondrous touch.
And you hungrily savor it all, discovering me caress by caress. The hard planes of your chest hide away years of toil and torment, mistakenly invisible to the naked eye because of the lamp. And we make no move to illuminate the room any further. It is not needed.
Sweet and sharp kisses alternate down to my navel, and your calloused hand gently thumbs my bosom, sending currents of anticipation down my spine. And between us, we smell of desire and love, passion and lust, need and want.
Come morning, you will be gone. Come morning, I will go back to being who I am. Come morning, you will metamorphose into a man you can’t bear to look at.
But I don’t see you anyway, and your battle scars are badges of your bravery. My dark vision has no light, and the contours of your old and long-healed wounds are always hard and rigid beneath my soft, exploring hands.
The lamp sees all. And it hides everything but the perfection of our union.