She tells me that I am beautiful everyday.

Her hands are always warm which makes sense since her body radiates most of the heat that keeps me warm.

Her voice reassure me that god is real and when she sings to me, I am sure she’s an angel (contrary to her belief that god does not exist).
There is something in her soft brown eyes that makes my blood rush and stomach turn to rocks when she looks at me.

Sometimes the playfulness that linger between us gets too rough but I say nothing. I know that her fingertips are her most powerful weapon that she holds and they feel like a whip against my skin when I least expect it.

I tell her things that I have never said out loud and when her hands cool down, and her touch is safe again, she strokes my cheek and reassures me that it’s okay.

I tell her that it’ll get complicated and when we will both least expect it, it’ll rip our tightly sewn limbs apart and we will be left bare. She holds my shaking hands and tells me that we’ll figure it out, and in the midst of the my outcries and most confusion, she is right.

Her words are strong enough to repair my cracked foundation, and harsh enough to ignite flames that had long been blown out.