Fashion.Poetry.

“Can I dress you?”

Oh, my heart. Of course you can. Of course, please, just touch me some more, just brush my leg with your hand again.

“You know, people always dress themselves after sex. They say the moral of the story is nobody helps you out once you’re fucked.”

I laugh at this. I guess it’s true. Dressing is always the non-sequitur, the parenthesis of love-making. Undressing is vigorous, full of heat and urge. I smile at the way you find my clothes scattered amongst your blankets, forgetting which layer applies.

It’s almost like being a child, when someone dresses you. I nearly expect an “arms up” when you raise my shirt over my head. But you look at me, balance me, adorn me slowly, and kiss me. Even though, honestly, I’m a mess and my makeup is smeared and I look horrid, I feel at peace with you and the way you look at me.

My face is ruddy with kiss marks.

My hands are shaking a bit.

I haven’t slept at all.

Mm, I love this.