She is laying perfectly still. Staring at her reflection in the clear, now lukewarm water. She moves only slightly, and I watch as the water gently ripples across her body. When she breathes in, it streams down from her chest, filling every crevice… the place from which she was given life. It hugs her sides when she moves, critiques and compliments her physique. It seems like the tide, It rises and falls across her china doll skin like the sea rises and falls against a sandy beach. White, and milky under the water. Water. It gives her a feeling of familiarity, warmth. Completely surrounding her, she feels beautiful. Flaws disclosed, curves intensified. She is beautiful. Beautifully imperfect.
She shivered suddenly from head to toe, as though foreign blood was embed into her veins, and her body was rejecting it. My moment of pure happiness and peace was disturbed as she rose to dry herself off. But I never forgot it. She is my own Bathsheba. Mine and only mine to watch, and to love from afar. Yet it is torture, I cannot even touch her. I long to feel her skin… trace my fingers across her. Memorize her.
How much longer can I take this?