I remember waking up and seeing your face in the sunlight. I remember that summer—I’ll remember it all my life. I remember our breakfasts on the roof. I remember that you never liked to eat—even though you loved my food. I remember how self-conscious you stayed, even months into knowing me. I remember how sometimes each of us would dress in the other room, even after we’d been together. And I remember how you looked, in the middle of the night, with just the light that was coming from the bathroom, with your brown skin half-under and half out of the covers. I remember how you liked my fur. I remember your hot ass—the curve of it—you really did have a perfect body. I remember your colors, inside and out, that dark brown that I love so much—love the deep matte-ness of it—I love the way it doesn’t reflect light. I love white girls, I do. But my favorite kind of skin is yours. It’s deep. It seems softer to me. When I bite it, I like the way it tastes. When you move, when you bend at the waist, I like the way your belly looks, in the front—I like the way you crease. I love your nipples. I love your cunt. I love your brown lips, and I love the red that’s inside of them. Those two colors together..on you..it’s contrast I want to bite, and slip my tongue inside—it’s contrast I want to fuck. And when you’re sitting on top of me, with your morning hair, and when you’re fucking me and you forget about us for a second and look at something out the window—that’s my favorite moment of all—to be fucking, and it be such a regular thing that neither of us cares if we’re paying any attention at all—for you to look out the window and me go up on one elbow to see what you’re looking at—what was it? Jules? (You’re looking.) The mailman? A bird?