It's 4:31 A.M.
My fingertips tenderly roam the map of your back.
Shoulder blades like mountains with narrow valleys between.
The nape of your neck, the mouth of the stream of your spine.
Nothing compares in depth to the dimples on your back.
Except, maybe, how deeply I fall into your eyes.
Cliché? Perhaps.
At least, I used to think so.
There's a spark that ignites my soul entire,
blazing through me endlessly. But I do not writhe.
And I do not let the flame dwindle.
For the fire sears through me,
leaving me intrigued to explore you more.
Forgetful of the charred remnants of myself,
yet fully aware of the new flower blossoming through my ashes.
I nurse the bud hopefully, urging it to bloom.
Your toes twitch when you sleep but I've never told you so.
I can see the little indentation above your left eyebrow
and in case I forget to ask - where did you get it?
The scars on your knees continue to fade and my oh my,
do I wish they'd stay.
You know where you got each one,
you've told me seventeen times.
I'll listen again.
I love the lines by your eyes when you smile,
the dimples on both your cheeks to your little teeth.
Slightly crooked and not quite straight because you refused braces.
You didn't want to be perfected.
You never paint your fingernails, nor do you cut them.
I love your back scratches.
Your hands feel like satin sheets and I wish mine weren't so rough
I wouldn't change your little belly, that's never been flat enough to you,
but will always be sacred to me.
By the way, I've seen the freckle on your right butt cheek.
Eyes still closed and with a twitch of your little nose,
you roll towards me.
Your head finds a home against my chest
as the flower of us blooms in my heart.

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