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It’s walking down the street, my hands in his pockets. It’s in the way he looks at me and the way his smile widens. It’s in the way he laughs and the word mouse. It’s when I’m on his couch, wearing his socks, feet on amp and he is lost in thought, hand in hair, squeaking chair. It’s sitting next to him at dinner, and he is talking to his friends, and my foot is upon his. It’s in nibbling his ear, and kissing his nose.

It’s in the arch of his spine and the moist film upon his skin. It’s in the way his pupils dilate and the depth of his eyes; when he holds me, moving his hands over me, sculpting me. It’s his scent that infuses me, the way we touch, feeling him pressing against me. It’s the feeling of his hair in my hands, his breath on my neck, his fingers entwined with mine. It’s in the warmth, the passion, the heat.

It’s in the way he is the underlying aura of everything I do. It’s in the way I think of nothing but him and the way I want to talk about nothing but him. It’s in having him.

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