I want to wake up with your handprint on my hip and your perfume in my hair. I want to be haunted by your touch. Every breath of wind could be an unexpected caress: phantom kisses against my skin.
Some nights, you set up the telescope. Tonight, we lie on the blanket instead. “Cygnus. Cepheus. Cassiopeia.” Your arm follows the sweep of the sky, like a caress. Four inches from your hip and light years away, I hardly dare to breathe.