The Whispers On My Skin

I love the aroma of the ginger tea he makes just for me,

mingled with his laughter,

as he teases me while I sip it with delight,

like it’s the first time.

I love the dusty perfume of old books

he’s gifted me over the years —

still laced with the whispers

of roses I once pressed between their pages.

I love the earthy breath of petrichor

on him, as he walks in from the rain.

Oh, how I wish I could dance with him,

without caring about the nosy neighbours.

I love the trace of him that clings to his worn-out hoodie;

just like I cling to it while waiting for him.

I love the hint of sun on his shirt,

as he hugs me tight after a long day,

and I bury my face in his chest —

happy, and hopelessly in love.

I love the sweet, fruity note

of strawberry chewing gum

that lingers on his lips —

right before they melt into mine.

I love the faint whiff of leather on his hands,

left behind by the bike ride;

as he cups my face gently

and I kiss those worn, perfect fingertips.

I love the salt of his skin, and

the scent of sweat that beads on his brow,

as he looks into my eyes; our bodies moving together,

slow and deep, in a rhythm only lovers know.

I love smelling the soft notes of his shampoo,

as I run my fingers through his hair,

teasing him softly,

as he lies breathless on my chest afterwards.

I love the essence that stays on my tresses —

of those jasmine flowers

that wilted in embarrassment

at what they witnessed…

And I love his fragrance on my skin;

wrapping me in comfort, long after.

But above all —

I love the scent and heat of his breath

against my neck —

that wordless, warm ache called DESIRE.

The one that makes me feel loved — completely.

The one that tells me I’m his — entirely .

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