Sometimes when he is patting the small of my back or running his fingers along my eyebrows I forget to live and, instead, just exist. It's like those dreams you have when you're hovering, looking down on yourself: I'm completely there and no where at the same time. 

At night, when he holds my feet until they're warm, and let's me nestle into his lap like a child. How he just watches me sometimes, and the way his skin seems to smell like home. When he makes my coffee, dairy free with the perfect amount of sugar. How he washes my hair in that awkward way, fumbling with the length that he's not used to - but he takes his time and always does it right. How he beckons each morning for chest-laying hugs, long and heavy, filled only with the thuds of a sleepy heartbeat. The day feels so long like I've lived a hundred lifetimes from morning drives to fraud checks to phone calls to wallpaper dark drives home again. I can't remember the days coming home where I didn't have to fumble with the internal light on. 

I long to show you it's you. It's you when I wake at night and reach with childlike hands for the water. It's you when I talk about my day at work. It's you when I make Sunday morning coffee. It's you when I need a lower back rub. It's you when I rush to get ready for work and my car is waiting, defrosted. It's you when my feet need moisturising once we're already in bed. It's you in darkness. It's you when the alarm goes off. Its you when I can't touch the sand. It's you, always. 

Tomorrow is an early start, and I've washed my hair for the reassurance of those extra seven minutes in bed. I have too much to remember and my head already hurts, even before any of the champagne. 


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