Your naked back full of freckles and birthmarks while your arms colored by sunburned spots and tan lines; I can sleep there forever and dream about the ocean swallowing my seven years old body for being too careless, swimming alone, or the forest trapping my ninety years old body for being too curious, walking alone. But I am going to be safe there sleeping, now and here, maybe not dreaming about the past, not imagining about the future.
Your head rests in my thighs but your hair dances in the open air and I can't stop myself from stroking it gently. Sometimes I wonder how it tastes like if I lick it just the way we french-kiss; wild and dangerous, aflame and malicious. To me your hair is always that one cup of creamy coffee in the evening and my hands are yesterday's newspaper although another time I feel it comparable to an old blanket so that my hands can be the stray cat looking for warmth.
You are my favorite bedtime tales in whose end I never, ever, grasp with open eyes.
13 December 2015