I wonder if you know what the sight of you sleeping does to me? Your arms are wrapped around my pillow, and that rebel curl of yours is falling over your forehead as a sigh slips past your lips. The sheets are crumpled around your waist, and your sun-kissed skin is pulled tightly over hard muscles that lure me in not because they are physically appealing, but because in the strength of your arms, I find my shelter.
Dear lover of mine, have you come to comprehend how achingly much I love you? Would it be wise to show you? To let you listen to my heart as it beats just because yours does? To let you feel my blazing flesh and my roaring pulse as you come near and watch me through heavy-lidded eyes?
Be gentle, sweet lover of mine. As you touch my skin and your fingers trace patterns down the curves of my body, you equally stroke my soul, that soul that you have sneaked in and locked yourself behind its bars.
You keep moaning in your sleep and your hand slides across the cool sheets that I have vacated, a restless movement that pulls at strings deep within my heart. Sleep soundly, love, for I am near. I will always be near when you are vulnerable and need me the most.
I crawl back into bed, and your hand immediately settles on my thigh, a possessive reminder that no matter the circumstances, I am yours. Smiling, I press a kiss on your forehead and play with the soft strands of your hair.
Hello, beloved charmer of my heart, it’s me, the woman who disturbs your resting hours with her troubled tossing and fretful whimpers. It’s me, the one who wakes you up in the middle of the night, with her icy hands plastered on your chest and her trembling lips seeking the comfort of your kiss.
There might come a day when you tire of the insecure, little girl who pushes you away, then comes running back into your arms. But sweet lover of mine, it will still be me, your darling who is flooded by emotions, who is afraid to welcome you into her fortress and hand you the dagger you could stab in her chest.
Then, with a crooked smile and your all-consuming touch, you show me that I’m brave enough to give you my trust. You gift me your love, even when I’m a disheveled mess, with my wrinkles and my tangled hair and my cranky mood that drives you mad.
Hey, it’s still me, the same woman who calls you one too many times, who has mood swings you rarely understand, who drinks your coffee and uses your razor blades.
Oh, dear lover of mine, after all this time, I don’t blame you for finding it hard to still love me. It’s me, the difficult, the stubborn, and the emotion-loaded grenade in your bed.
But it’s also me, your partner and your harbor. It’s me, the woman who loves you the most, who built her world around you, and in whose arms you are home.