An airplane. A firefly. A fairy.
Wrapped up in your arms, I find shapes in the smoke coming from between your lips. I tell you that I can almost see a fairy and you chuckle as you come closer and rub your beard against my cheek.
It’s June, but I can almost see autumn in the brown of your eyes. I take a drag from your cigarette and we talk about making our own smoke-induced ice cream flavor, and why the word ‘comet’ is your favorite word. You run your fingers through my hair and you laugh again. I know it was a bad idea to dye my hair blue.
I look at your brows, all furrowed, from trying to remember the name of that Danish dessert. You swear it was just on the top of your tongue. I look at your beautiful face, your beard, your hands.
You play Steven Wilson and I think his voice does justice to your beauty. And then you bring Scandinavia up. I could never understand your love for this far off country, the place that I’d read about only in my history textbooks. But I too, love this country, for no other reason than every single time you talk about it, your eyes light up like the northern lights and your smile finally reaches your eyes.
I am too busy looking at you, to realize that the song has stopped playing.
There’s silence between us, the warm, comforting kind of silence.
We don’t say a word.
We don’t need to.
We never did.