Every so often he
swings through town and makes
his way into my bed,
broad trunk filling the void this empty mattress
reaffirms on the nights I sleep alone,
which is most.

I appreciate the infrequency with which
he comes to visit,
my door kept ajar,
my heart kept  comfortably closed,
as he strolls in in his designer
sneakers or boots,
the noncommittal conversation flowing freely
between us.

Once I recall he rolled over,
his hand sliding up my forearm,
wrapping himself around my
frame as I pulled out my phone
to show him a photo,
and he noticed his number wasn't saved,
guffawing at my nonexistent concern for his
permanence,
or lack thereof.

I like the way he laughs
and the rare moments when we exchange
something deeply
personal about ourselves,
complicated words and phrases transplanting
simplistic nonverbal communication.

He is handsome
without being too ****;
he is smart
without being argumentative;
he is wealthy
without being ostentatious;
he is shy
without being withdrawn;
he is a lot of things,
my finely filed fingernails not even
beginning to scratch the
surface of his otherwise
intriguing layers,
having tied my own
hands
behind my back.

I need the way he doesn't
need me,
and him I.
Sometimes I need his body heat,
the gentle weight of a
man's arm hanging on
my curvy hip.
There are moments when I need
one of our witty but empty
texting conversations,
simple enough to read after
too much Bordeaux.

I need the something that
exists in the nothing
that he brings
me.