Muscles are still sore from moving against him.
I wake up at 1130 and lie there, on his thin mattress, my lips resting against the back of his skull, chest against his back, arm wrapped around his torso, hand over his heart.
I listen to him breathe, feel the heat rising off him, the sun on my skin, streaming through the window, highlighting the books, notes, pens, journals, scattered across the hardwood floor along with our clothes.
He creates beauty.
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