We're sitting like we always are,
with the T.V. as background noise,
talking about things that aren't relevant
and are only being discussed
in avoidance of the subject at hand.
I'm writing these love letters to you in my head,
but the words just never sound the same out loud.
I can't help but to stare at you, as you're possibly the most
handsome thing I have ever seen.
I'm playing with your hands...
moving your fingers in between mine,
moving them away,
moving them back.
You hold me closer.
I lean into the nook at the bottom
of your shoulder, between the beginning
of your arm and your chest.
Your breathing is even...
So is mine.
You whisper my name.
You're the only one I like calling me that,
because you're special.
You're not limited to nicknames,
times you can or cannot call;
there aren't any boundaries for you.
"I love you"
and I love you too, babe.
This feels right.
This feels comfortable.
This feels perfect.
This feels like home...
because home is where ever you are.
