Bound

He is bound in rope but not restrained. He could undo my knots at anytime. He chooses not to.

All of my passwords are on his arm, wrist to shoulder, in languages foreign to us both. I sometimes suppose he has translated them, but won't make the attempt to match passwords to bank accounts, email... It's rash to think this way, but the line of his stomach just now as he stretches backward tells me he has no interest in passwords.

When I'm finished with the coffee, the strawberries in yogurt, the sun having moved beyond the top of the windowsill to creep along the south wall, I whisper that I'll probably untie him when I come home.

The tattoo artist who speaks seven languages is coming over tonight. Another word -- but where to place it? In the veiled castle of his throat to clavicle, I see what silk scarves could hide: the word he has yet to use, to bother speaking.

On my knees, I put a mirror in front of him. His breath fogs it. With a finger, I trace the spot such a lengthy word in flowing script could be centered in, a spot of pulsing, warm skin. As tender as the flesh on the underside of his arm? We shall see, we shall learn.

I leave a bite, to remind us both. He trembles and says nothing. When I come home, the sun will have left him entirely in shadow, and he will be shivering, naked but for my ropes. I savor the image, and kiss him goodbye.

The word he has never said echoes in my mind, and I wonder: what if it were tattooed upon me?

What if I were marked with his silence?

The sun continues to spill inside our little apartment, and I shut the door, carefully, gently.