I did have a perfect picture of what your body would look like, what I supposed it must look like, months before I even spoke to you. I imagined your breasts, the curve of your ass where it meets the top of your thigh, the rounded bones of your hips that poke up when you're lying beneath me...

But then I saw it for real, in front of me, breathing, moving, alive. I saw your belly button, narrow, shallow, like a T with a curved top. I saw the beauty mark on your pale flesh, like a speck of errant, melted chocolate right beneath your rib cage, and the blue vein that branches out like a shadow beneath the skin on your collar bone.

And now that's all burned into my brain, a brand, an afterglow like you get from looking at the sun for too long. I close my eyes and it's like a single, clear frame from a movie. Frozen.

So yes, I used to think about you before I had you, but I don't remember that. I don't remember what it looked like. I don't remember what I thought of at all before I met you.