I could think of many words to use to write about my love. After all, I have seen him in ‘most every state.

 

I have seen his cheeks cupped in stubborn stubbles that prick my temples when he plants goodnight kisses. On days when he forgets balm, his lips chap and dry, and he ignores it until I lend him mine. He watches people even when he seems as if he’s too busy to pay attention. And, as we should, if we base actions on biological ratio, he listens more than he speaks - when he listens he lends all that he could, but when he speaks, he keeps more than he should.

 

There are moments in the day, far too often if I may confess, when I’d slip my hand right around his nape and touch base where his hair softly crawls towards his back. I’d drop my eyes just right by his towering nose and peek up to get a good view of just how long his lashes are, so much so it curves like a fan and covers his lids like thick forests, untouched.

 

I still jump at the sound of his voice calling my name; and when he pulls me close enough that our shoulders would touch I would try to be clever only if to steal a kiss, or see him smile, the way he does when I catch him off guard. 

 

He likes music but would drive in standstill silence.

His eyebrows wrinkle when he’s thinking, and he can’t keep a straight face, for the life of him, when he’s thought of something errant.

 

I guess I could go on to scribble words and things and stories about my love, but it would never give justice to the kind of bliss, so thick, I could almost touch it -  that I am enveloped in, when he is near.

 

There are many words to describe my love, and the kind of sober drunkenness we share by carrying each other, in mind, soul and heart - but these words, my words, are more his than they are mine.

Be still, they say.

It’s still him, I say.

Through these skies that pulse with roaring light and trembles in electricity. To the moon, and right by burning stars, through listless planets and imaginary celestial wars - and back.

It's still him.

Always.