I'm lying next to him,
Midst sweat soaked sheets and heavy breaths.
My small room painted in the last shade of an evening
and his perfume.
There is more to this man than his honey glazed skin or the white shirt that he had slid off of his shoulders.
Secrets in the shape of his hands and the roughness of his palms against my fingertips.
With his half hearted smiles, his melancholy he hides at the seams of the curve of his lips.
There is more to this man,
Than how he lowers his voice when he walks around, talking on the phone.
Something about his bonfire eyes and the sweet disguise of an ocean of lonliness.
He is not like sunday morning, deep breaths in the shower or anything that says— home.
He is instead,
Like bitter coffee, or like thunderstorm keeping you awake at night.
What is it about his tireless stares, his mysterious eyes or the lies that I don't understand?
Lying next to him,
Midst sweat soaked sheets and lazy nudges
I can't help but wonder—
There is more to this man.