I love the definition of his muscles. The squashy, pudgy skin of his biceps that makes my resting body all the more comfortable. His little spare tyre makes my bag of bones feel secure, held, safe. He is solidness. He is softness. He is beauty. And he is home.
Nestled under an arm, one leg draped over his stomach, head on his chest. Catching the breath exhaling from his slightly open mouth. In and out, I capture his taste in the air from his lungs. It is familiar and intoxicating. Sour, in-need-of-toothpaste breath, but I swear I live by it Sucking it up inside me until it becomes my own unpleasant morning breath, despite me not having eaten chicken tikka the night before.
He rolls over, drunk with sleepiness to face me. He slides another shielding arm around me, kisses the top of my hairline and I place my chin on his already fast asleep again shoulder. I count the freckles on his back. As well as the scars left by my nails.
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