On Sunday morning when I slipped back into bed, I realised something: your body changes on a daily basis, and so I will never know every inch of it. It is always new.
From the scent of you, to the heat you radiate, to the marks and curves that come and go: I will never know every detail of your body.
I know what you look like with a beard, and clean shaven. But each morning when you stumble, bleary-eyed out of the bathroom, I’ll never know if you’ll have a mark on your chin where you cut yourself. Or a small coin-sized patch of spiky hairs that you missed in your rush to be finished.
I know the way your skin feels against mine, when I press tight up behind you, squashing my chest flat against your back. I know how my cold nipples feel against the warmth of your skin. But I’ll never know exactly, because each day will be different. Sometimes you’ll shift slightly in your sleep – murmur and do that cute thing where you kiss the pillow unaware that it’s not me. Other times you’ll stay still – holding your breath as I hug you, in the hope that I’ll keep stroking and won’t make you get out of bed.
I know so much about you, and the way your body changes. I know which old scars will always be there, and which new ones are starting to fade. I know which moles to keep an eye on, and which places to touch when you’re in the mood. But I’ll never be able to picture you fully, so each time some will come as a surprise.
And I’ll want to bite and kiss those bits to check you’re really real.
I will never know every inch of your body.
I know your left nipple better than your right one, because of the side you sleep on in bed. Just as you know how to tuck the duvet to make sure my toes aren’t cold, and the pitch of my squeals if your hands are chilly when you slip into bed beside me.
Your body could be my specialist subject on Mastermind. I know how it likes its coffee. The softness of its lips, and how that changes in the winter. How it tessellates best when it meets mine for a hug. What its spunk tastes like, and how long to keep sucking to bring you to that aching agony of post-orgasmic pain.
But I’ll never know every inch of your body. Each day I learn something new. From the big (“I don’t like pepper.” “But I ALWAYS cook with pepper.” “But I don’t like it.” “Jesus fuck OK YOU cook.”) to the small (“I’ve put on weight.” “Sweet. Can I smack your bum?”) to the microscopic nerdy details that no one else would notice: the sensation of the soft hair on your lower lip. The texture of your fingertips when you feed me a Malteser. Their texture when you press them against my clit – wet with your spit and my come.
If you gave me a blindfold and a room full of men I’d… well, OK, apart from that… I’d recognise exactly which one was you from the scent of your neck and the curve of your hips and the taste of your cock and a palm placed firmly on your chest to feel your temperature.
The exact girth of your dick in my hand.
I know your body – I know it so well that I think I could tell not just which dick was yours but how recently you’d touched it yourself. Where your hand had been when you squeezed it. But although I know it, I can never predict it: which sights make it twitch in your jeans as you burrow through London. Bums on the escalator. Women in summer dresses. A chat we had last night about what we’ll do on Saturday.
I know that patch of skin on your neck, below your left ear, and how good it feels to rub my lips against it. But each time something will come as a surprise – some tiny difference like new hairs or fresh scars or a new washing powder mingling with the scent of you.
I’ll never know every inch of your body.
But each day I’ll take a half-step closer, and each day you’ll take another step away. And as your body changes, that infinite, endless drive to really know it is as beautiful as you are now.
As new as you were yesterday.
As you will still be tomorrow.