Him.

There is no tempo to dictate the rhythm of his touch

The way he gently tugs at my hips in the wee hours

How he gently kisses the nape of my neck

Runs his forefinger down my spine

The way he intertwines our legs in between the sheets

Calls my name to make sure I am still near

Or how he repositions himself to get closer

To touch

I wish I could photograph every moment

Relive each in its own dimension

I wish I could love him in two lifetimes


The few months I had weren’t nearly enough

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