He drew me. My lips, he portrayed as soft, kissable, when in reality, the winter air had made them chapped and dry. He would kiss them, anyway, his tongue tracing their outline, prying open my mouth, wanting more.
He wrote about me. About how we made love, the way that his fingers traced my hips. The warm June air making our bodies as warms as our hearts and the way the grass tickled us. He detailed the moans I made, the way I said his name, the way our bodies synced together. It wasn't sex, it was truly making love. He photograped me. My arms, which he would gently scrape his fingernails across. The arms that he kissed and admired, the arms that held him when he felt agony.
He sang about me. His long fingers strumming the guitar as he sang of my gazing, dreamer, eyes and my laughter. He sang of the way I would dance around the room, giggling like a girl, but my body moving like a woman's.
He sculpted me inside his arms, resting against his chest.
He carved for me our names, on that big oak by the park, where everyone can see it.
He danced for me. His jig was of joy, to show that for me he would make a fool.
He left for me. For I asked him to search for my dreams, and then he came home. He brought with him nothing. He whispered to me in the light of the moon, "Aren't I your dream?"
I replied softly, my lips tickling his ear, my breath warm against his neck, "Yes you are ... I realize I need nothing more."
He married me. We grew old together, his poems of me lying on a shelf, his paintings hanging on the wall, our hands still holding tight. Our fingers intertwined perfectly, our bodies still touched and felt a shock.
He loved me.