You come to me in little fragments. It gives me no chance to catch my breath, and somewhere in between the flirtations and the conversations, the kisses and the caresses, I lost myself in you. I am reminded of the little things.
That first breakfast. You sinking down on the couch adjacent to mine, graceful in a way that seemingly teased my own awkwardness. I was quiet then, perhaps a little bashful, as you snuck your way into my heart over an unassuming cup of white coffee and a two pieces of bruschetta. I wouldn't admit it, but I did want one more. And with an indulgent knowing smile, you gently nudged the plate my way.
The time we ordered take-away and then lay around and did nothing all day. The milkshake, movie date nights, good food, late night bike-rides home, grocery-shopping, boardwalks and public restrooms. Red candles, strawberry dub-dub, lingering scent of your cologne, mornings curled up in bed, and breakfasts in sarong. There are no tearful partings, no lingering hugs, no salty kisses. Just the quiet glances and the secret touches. The redness of my lips against yours. Kisses on the tips of my nose and caresses on the inside of my thigh.
I can almost hear your laughter, feel your breath against my cheek, hear myself giggle at a clever attempt of rumbling, the assault of your kisses, enveloping of your hand in mine, my legs wrapping themselves around yours as if they have a mind of their own, staking their claim, the heat of your skin against mine, you fitting against me in inexplicable perfection, nestling up against your chest, being lulled back into unconsciousness by the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, reveling in the feeling of finally being home.
Moments of happiness, snatches of intimacy.
