I lie in bed — his eyes magnetic.
It’s almost morning. And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

My penmanship is my communication,

His comprehension unrivaled.

I glance at his face, he tends to my wounds, treasures my flaws.

Is he aware how deeply he heals me?

I could stare for hours, his lips muttering musical jargon I’ll never grasp, his gentle eyes that widen when he laughs.

A visual enigma. A spiritual cleanse.

He reminds me of the evening haze,

the night sky that glimmers, mirrored in his face.

Wise beyond belief, his awareness of such depth dwindles.

A catharsis I can’t articulate.

He’s an open book I could annotate forever.

I am in awe.

I am at home.