There’s something about those hands, baby, something about those arms and the way they think I belong to them.
Sometimes, I do.
But other times, I belong to the way your voice, dull and low, raspy with sleep, says my name, no predicate, no sentence, my name, a declaration.
I like to go to sleep next to you so much that I think my body will question me if I ever sleep alone again. I think we are made for each other, fingers fit like puzzle pieces, lips thrive off of each other,
I always thought a soul mate was someone you convinced yourself you needed because you love them, but laying here with you and seeing my spirit reflect in your eyes only, I realize I was wrong.