There is nothing more sweet to me than the feel of my husbands skin while he sleeps on, oblivious to my gentle touching. Completely soft, entirely unblemished, warm like a thick blanket I could wrap myself in and day dream for hours.
I love the most late at night, when everything, the bullshit included, has gone to bed and it’s just me and the universe studying each other from across the waves of void and sloppy stars.
I love and I see what is and what will be, passing the drowsy hours alone surrounded by states upon states of sleeping people, and me relishing in the silence. The only sound I hear right now is that of the rain tinkling on the tops of cars. the only thing I taste is the richly bitter inhale from yet another cigarette, and the only thing I know is that not two feet away slumbers a man I would die for, stand up and fight for, move mountains and desecrate crowds for.
Just the soft touch of my sticky palm against sleep-feverish skin is enough to sustain me these long nights. I love him. I love him.
Night is not for sleeping.
