Your eyes: cool, uncertain, creasing suddenly at the corners in devilment and amusement; melting and rounding as your heart breathes and fills; flickering with sudden irritation, rolling up and sideways.
Your habit of sitting, three-quarter profile, your nape and line of your jaw visible, a single eye darting backwards to gauge my reaction before returning to the distance in front of you. I keep shifting to look at you and you keep turning slightly further away. A circular dance. A spinning-chase.
You are biting the insides of your lips. A mixture of nerves and flexibility, feline, spasming suddenly to scritch and scratch your electric coronet, shaking that violent pink nest of seasnakes, setting them dancing and flying in a temporary frenzy, stilled as swiftly as started. The way your lips part, softly, invitingly, then hungrily. The way you sit up straight when imparting a jewel of recondite information, such as the breeding habits of orang utangs and butterflies, or the number of uses for the common peony among the Laps, or the influence of Hegel on lettuce-growing.
Your ragdoll manner when you fling your limbs to stretch, heedless of colliding and knocking my poor block off. Your pained sense of undeservedness; your joyous glint when you accept you are loved. Your langour, smoking in bed, as circumspection slowly takes precedence over peacefulness, a peace that is lovely to watch even as it slowly ebbs.
Your competence, efficiency, physically you are a marvel to watch. A lithe spring that occasionally tangles itself in its own gleaming coils. Your nakedness, serpentine, eyes glowing, body hard and pliant, tigerish, scented with a hundred musks, a grove of flowers. Your breath is my breath and my lips your lips.
Forgive this clumsy word-painting. Every letter is written with love.
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