These Things I Miss

I miss him seeing me how pretty I am
Fresh from the shower.
My hair piled atop my head
Damp tendrils trailing down my neck
My body
Pink and newborn
From the brisk massage
Of the thick terrycloth
Drinking in the
Excess moisture.
I stand at the mirror
Admiring
My curves
And select a sweet-smelling balm
To caress each slope
And slide
Along familiar trails.
Shaking loose my hair
From its elastic prison
And strolling serenely
To select
Delicate underthings
He will not see.
These things I miss.
And I wonder
Does he miss it, too?