I keep thinking of her hips--how they feel when she's lying on top of me--bone sharp against my soft flesh. It takes determination not to shift my weight to shift her weight on top of me, but mostly it's that I desire her on top of me, that close, breast to breast, with her belly button ring stenciling faint patterns in carbon-copy lightness onto my skin. For hold-our-breath-minutes we stay that way, until she sighs or I sigh and our bodies become a mutual wave of life, and we shift simultaneously.
I've been obsessed with her hips--how their curve is as smooth as melted ice cream before it drips and puddles.
I've been imagining my hands sliding over her hips with the gentleness of a pianissimo movement.