Nude.

From where she lay
on her chest the buttons
pressed against her
skin and made purplish
dents. I took a finger

tracing the lines
and feeling out
the horror
in the hollows.

Darling
your shirt is
practically
gaping.

These marks are
just a reminder
of who we are
when we're not naked.

Her waistband
again, cut into
the flesh by
pressure, were
the buttons real
I'd undo her
and slip inside

But I find
just tracing the lines
connecting the dots
is fine, is enough.

The white sheets
draped over her
like some grecian
gown; I smile.

I love you for
what you are.