When he describes my heart he uses the word ‘indestructible’ — tells me that my soul is made from a rope that will never fray. When he touches my shoulders, my elbows, my wrists, he blesses their strength — is awed by the tenacity of bone and muscle, how tight they hold on.
When my lips press against his he whispers ‘ocean’ — my tongue becomes the undertow. He sinks into me, drowns happily. My laugh knocks the breath from his body. My eyes burn his skin. Every part of me has impact. Touches. Marks. Leaves no mistake that he’s been taken both beautifully and wildly.
At night when he turns towards me his back cracks — he knows enough to lay down and surrender. That my love is a war he cannot win, and when he wakes he mistakes the mattress for a bed of poppies; his hands are searching for the exit wound. But there is nothing. Just blankets and sheets. And me.
A girl, only a girl, curled up soft and small by his side.